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kathaelipwse · 2 months ago

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DRAPED IN ARROGANCE | J.Yunho

“You weren’t just wearing my designs, you were wearing me.”

Pairing: Designer!Jeong Yunho x Model!Fem.Reader

Word Count: 14,473 words Reading Time: 52-ish mins

Trope: Enemies to Lovers kind of- | Workplace Tension | Designer x Muse | He Falls First And Hard

Genre: Angst | Romance | Fashion Industry AU | Slow Burn

Warnings: Gossip, bullying, class divide, touch-starved tension, emotional trauma, mild alcohol use, mentions of attempted murder (non-graphic), NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: You crash an invite-only fashion casting. He stops the show. Picks you. The industry whispers that you’re his obsession. He says it’s just business. But when touch turns to tension, and jealousy turns to war— You’ll either become his greatest masterpiece… or the muse that ruins him.

Note: For the girls who’ve ever been told they don’t belong—this one if for you. For the ones who walk like a storm, speak like they mean it, and still get called “too much”—this one is stitched for you.

1.2k followers special <3

The air in the cavernous studio was a thick, palpable hum of ambition and barely contained nerves. It wasn't just the scent of new fabric and expensive perfumes; it was the unspoken desperation of a hundred dreams crammed into one room. An elite, invite-only casting, the kind that legends were made from, or careers were quietly extinguished. And you? You were an anomaly, a rogue element in this carefully curated ecosystem, a rookie with no real business being there, yet somehow, you were.

You strode in, not with the demure, practiced grace of the models who had been groomed for this moment since childhood, but with a raw, almost feral energy. Each step was a statement, a ripple of defiance in a perfectly still, perfectly polished pond. Your head wasn’t tilted in an apology or a plea for acceptance; it was held high, a banner of your untamed spirit. You knew you stuck out, felt the sidelong glances and the faint whispers that followed your unauthorized passage. They were sizing you up, dissecting your every move, but you met their stares with a cool indifference that bordered on disdain. You weren't here to make friends. You were here to walk.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. A palpable wave of anticipation, a sudden hush that swallowed the nervous chatter. He entered the space. Yunho. The name itself was a whisper of power, a reverberation of success and unyielding control. He was everything the industry deemed perfect: sharp angles, an intimidating presence, and eyes that missed nothing. They weren't just observing; they were dissecting, analyzing, calculating. And then, those eyes landed on you.

The world seemed to narrow, the periphery fading into a blur. His gaze, cold and assessing, fixed solely on you, a stark spotlight in a room full of flickering possibilities. He didn't just look; he consumed, absorbing every nuance of your posture, the subtle curve of your lips, the defiant set of your jaw. And then, he did the unthinkable. He brought the entire audition to a standstill. The music faded, the murmur of voices died, leaving only the deafening silence punctuated by the soft click of cameras.

Confusion, thick and immediate, rippled through the room like a tangible force. Heads swiveled, whispers like silk ribbons unfurled, imbued with a mixture of bewilderment and barely concealed resentment: Who is she? Why her? What just happened? You could feel their frustration, their carefully constructed poise cracking under the unexpected halt. But you didn't flinch. You just met his gaze, an unyielding challenge in your own eyes.

Yunho’s voice cut through the murmurs, perfectly polite yet infused with a chilling cruelty that made the air itself seem to thin. "The rest of you," his words resonated through the vast space, each one a precise, devastating incision, "are mannequins. She walks like war."

A collective gasp, stifled quickly by the sheer force of his presence. The words hung in the air, a declaration that simultaneously elevated you and annihilated everyone else. Mannequins. Lifeless. Impersonal. Disposable. And then, you, walking like war. It was a compliment, undeniably, but delivered with the detached precision of a surgeon.

You couldn't help it. A subtle, almost imperceptible roll of your eyes was your immediate, involuntary response. A direct, unvarnished challenge to his pronouncement, to his power, to his very perception of you. The clash was instant, undeniable. It was as if two opposing forces had collided, sparks flying in the silent room.

He saw it, of course. That flicker of defiance in your gaze, the slight twitch at the corner of your lips. He was annoyed by your attitude, you could sense it radiating off him, a tightly coiled tension beneath his composed exterior. But it was precisely that unbridled spirit, that audacity, that shaped your walk, the way you carried yourself. It wasn't about perfection; it was about presence. It was about impact. You weren't just moving across a floor; you were claiming the space, demanding attention, igniting a reaction.

You were the one who could command a runway, leave jaws on the floor, render an audience breathless. You were the one the industry would kill to have as their model, the elusive quality that every designer chased. And there was no way in hell he was letting you walk out of this room without being his. He saw the fire in your eyes, the unwavering confidence that bordered on arrogance. He saw the potential for greatness, not just in your movements, but in the sheer force of your personality.

That raw, untamed essence was the very reason he would even bother handling you. You were a project, a challenge, a potential goldmine. It was business, after all. A highly calculated, exceptionally profitable business venture. Or was it something else? A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, a momentary crack in the polished facade. A recognition, perhaps, of a kindred spirit, a mirror of his own relentless drive. But it was quickly masked, relegated to the realm of the unspoken. For now, it was strictly business. And as you held his gaze, a quiet battle raging between you, you knew this was just the beginning.

The vast studio, a crucible of ambition and cutthroat competition, now felt like a gilded cage. The initial shock of Yunho’s chilling pronouncement—that you “walked like war” while others were mere mannequins—had solidified into the stark, unyielding reality of training. It was brutal, an endless cycle of grueling rehearsals and meticulous fittings where fabric was stretched and pinned with surgical precision. Other models, once poised and seemingly unbreakable, often ended their days in quiet despair, their confidence chipped away by Yunho’s relentless pursuit of perfection.

Yet, with you, it was glaringly different. He was weirdly calm, a stark contrast to the storm he unleashed on everyone else. His instructions to you were delivered with a quiet intensity, his gaze steady, almost expectant, as if he saw something unique within you that others lacked. You found yourself arguing back, a natural reflex to his calculated demands, challenging his directives, questioning his methods. And to your surprise, he listened, sometimes even engaging in a quiet, intellectual sparring match that left other models baffled and envious.

This unusual dynamic, however, did not go unnoticed. The other models, a tightly wound coil of simmering insecurities and cutthroat ambition, observed your every interaction. At first, it was barely audible murmurs, like the rustle of expensive fabrics. Then, it escalated to outright backbiting like crazy, their voices dripping with a saccharine sweetness that masked potent venom. They spun elaborate rumors, painting you as a calculating opportunist, a schemer who had somehow, inexplicably, earned Yunho’s favor through illicit means. The most persistent, and perhaps the most infuriating, was the insinuation that you were “sleeping with the head himself.” They’d goad you, making snide comments just loud enough for you to overhear—remarks about “shortcuts to the top” or “special treatment.” They’d try to bully you when Yunho wasn't around, their tactics ranging from “accidentally” bumping into you in the halls to subtly sabotaging your props during rehearsals.

But did you let it affect you? No. A cold, quiet rage often settled in your gut. You knew these whispers, these petty acts, meant nothing to your ultimate goal. They were the desperate thrashings of those who couldn't comprehend or replicate the raw spark that had caught Yunho’s eye. You were here for business, a singular, unwavering focus that acted as your shield. And you believed Yunho meant the same. He was a visionary, a perfectionist, driven by an ambition as ruthless as your own. You were his tool, his muse, his latest project. Nothing more.

Seven months in, the relentless grind, coupled with the incessant, festering rumors, began to take its toll. The whispers had become a constant hum in your ears, a background noise that never truly faded. The isolation, enforced by the other models’ disdain, became a heavy cloak you wore daily. You were excelling, pushing the boundaries of what a model could do, mastering every walk, every expression. But every success, every hard-won compliment, felt tainted by the unspoken accusations, by the knowledge of the poisoned atmosphere that surrounded you. It was a suffocating weight, an invisible barrier between you and the world, and it was getting worse and WORSE day by day. You felt your resolve fraying, the steel in your spine beginning to bend. You were on the brink, ready to throw in the towel, to walk away from the very thing you had fought so hard to be a part of. The frustration was compounded by the fact that Yunho had no concrete proof of the bullying, and neither did you. It was a shadowy war of whispers, glances, and calculated omissions, impossible to pin down, impossible to confront directly.

One evening, after a particularly grueling rehearsal that had stretched late into the night, the vast studio finally began to empty. You lingered, gathering your belongings slowly, the desire to escape the building warring with the profound exhaustion that had settled deep in your bones. The last few models hurried out, their footsteps echoing before fading into silence. You were alone, or so you thought. Suddenly, Yunho was there, his presence filling the vast, quiet space, his back to the door, effectively blocking your exit. He hadn't made a sound.

You had requested for wanting to quit, knowing yunho wouldn't take it well. Especially since it was cause of the other people.

He cornered you, not physically, but with the sheer intensity of his gaze, an almost magnetic pull that held you in place. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was low, stripped of its usual polite cruelty, replaced by a raw, almost impatient edge.

“You think I chose you for your politeness?” His words were not a question, but a challenge, an accusation that cut through your exhaustion. He was testing you, pushing, as he always did.

Your frustration, seven months of bottled-up anger and hurt, of relentless striving under a cloud of suspicion, finally erupted. The words tumbled out, sharp and uncontrolled, laced with the bitterness that had been simmering beneath the surface. “No,” you hissed, the word cutting through the quiet like a whip. “You chose me because I make your ego hard.” The audacity of the statement, the brutal honesty, hung in the air, a volatile charge.

The first tension crackled between you, an almost audible sizzle in the charged atmosphere. His eyes, usually so guarded, widened imperceptibly, a flash of surprise, perhaps even a flicker of grudging admiration, crossing their depths. He stiffened, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly, as if your words had struck a nerve he didn't realize was exposed. Yours, blazing with defiance, met his without a single flinch, refusing to back down from the raw truth you had just laid bare. The eye contact lingered, stretching for what felt like an eternity, far too long for a boss and his employee, too long for mere colleagues. In that prolonged, silent stare, something fundamental shifted. It was a silent acknowledgment of a connection that transcended the professional, a dangerous, undeniable current that had been building beneath the surface for months. It was the first undeniable tremor, a significant crack in the carefully constructed façade of business, revealing a glimpse of something far more complex, far more personal, and potentially far more dangerous than either of you had anticipated.

He broke the gaze first, though his eyes still tracked you, a subtle shift in his posture suggesting a battle within. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his chest rising and falling. “And what does that imply, exactly?” he finally asked, his voice now dangerously low, each word weighted with an unspoken challenge. “That my choices are driven by something so… base? So easily satisfied?”

You scoffed, a short, sharp sound that conveyed all your contempt for his carefully maintained illusion. “It implies you chose me because I give you a thrill, a challenge. Because I’m not a mannequin, as you so eloquently put it. I’m a war you can’t quite win, and that excites you.” Your voice had dropped too, matching his intensity, a quiet ferocity that belied your exhaustion. “It implies I’m a disruption you’re obsessed with controlling, because you can’t stand not being in absolute command.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something almost akin to amusement in their depths, quickly extinguished. “Control is essential in this industry. Chaos leads to ruin.”

“And I’m chaos, aren’t I?” you retorted, stepping closer, your own anger finally giving way to a weary clarity. “I’m the rumor mill, the one they hate because you show me an ounce of respect. The one they say is ‘sleeping her way to the top’ because you don’t scream at me like you do everyone else.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last words, the weight of the past months momentarily crushing your defiance. You hated showing weakness, especially to him.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He studied you, his gaze sweeping over your face as if searching for something, some hidden vulnerability. “Are these accusations bothering you?” His tone was almost gentle, a softness that was more unsettling than his usual harshness. “Is that why you’re ready to break?”

The question hung in the air, a direct hit to your most vulnerable point. You wanted to deny it, to put on a brave face, but the exhaustion was too profound, the emotional toll too heavy. You just stared at him, your eyes welling slightly, not with tears of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated frustration. “What proof do you have?” you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. “What proof do I have? They don’t leave notes, Yunho. They leave glances, whispers, ‘accidents.’ It’s a poison that you can’t see, but it’s suffocating.”

He took a step closer, his shadow falling over you, momentarily enveloping you. The air between you was thick with unspoken truths. “And you think quitting solves anything?” he challenged, his voice regaining its sharp edge. “That you can outrun their pathetic jealousy? You think this industry will suddenly become kind just because you step out of my orbit?”

“No,” you hissed, the fight returning, your voice regaining its steel. “But maybe I can breathe. Maybe I can find a place where I’m not a trophy, not a project, not a symbol of your ego.”

His eyes locked onto yours again, the raw intensity back in full force. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second, then he clenched it into a fist, dropping it back to his side. It was a micro-expression, a momentary lapse in his control, but you saw it. He wanted to touch you, to offer comfort, or perhaps to exert control.

“You think I don’t see it?” His voice was barely a whisper now, resonant with a surprising depth of emotion. “The way they look at you, the things they say. I see it all. Do you think I’m blind to how you’re treated? You think I tolerate it?” His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. “I protect what’s mine. Even if what’s mine is stupid enough to think it isn’t.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. “Protect what’s yours?” You laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that conveyed all your contempt. “I am not yours, Yunho. I am not an object, a fucking marketing piece for your collection. I am an employee, and this is business.” The defiance was back, stronger than ever. “And as your employee, I’m done.”

You turned, the exhaustion and the anger finally propelling you towards the door he had once blocked. You would walk out, you decided, and you wouldn't look back. You would reclaim your breath, your sanity, even if it meant sacrificing the dream you had fought so hard to achieve.

He let you go. The silence behind you was deafening. But as you reached the door, you heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible sound of his jaw clenching, hard enough to bruise. You couldn't see him, but you knew. He was standing there, rigid, his composure fracturing in the quiet aftermath of your fight. He knew you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a ‘war’ he wanted to control. He kept telling himself you were nothing to him, just a business decision. But the tightness in his chest, the unexpected fury that flared when you spoke of leaving, told a different story.

You walked out into the cool night air, the city lights a blur. That night, the two of you didn't meet, though y'll had come face to face you chose to walk past him.

---

The fitting room was a sanctuary of soft light and hushed fabrics, a stark contrast to the usual controlled chaos of the studio. Yet, even here, the air was thick with an unspoken charge. You stood on the platform, clad in a design that was both breathtaking and unnervingly revealing. It was a gown of rich, dark silk, molded to your form, but its most striking feature was the entirely backless piece, a plunging cut that exposed every curve of your spine, ending just at the rise of your hips. The dress clung to you like a second skin, intimate in its design, demanding absolute stillness and confidence.

A junior assistant had initially been fussing with the hem, but then Yunho appeared, a silent, commanding presence at the edge of your vision. He dismissed the assistant with a curt gesture, his gaze already locked onto the shimmering fabric. He held a handful of pins, their metallic gleam reflecting the soft light.

There was no one else in the room now, just the two of you. The quiet of the fitting room amplified every subtle sound—the whisper of silk as he moved, the soft click of a pin being placed. He knelt slowly, his proximity immediate and intense. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of his cologne, sharp and clean, invading your space.

He began to adjust the hem himself, his fingers deft, precise, tracing the line of the fabric against your skin. His concentration was absolute, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested the dress was the only thing that mattered in the universe. But for you, the intimacy was overwhelming. Each small adjustment brought his hand closer, his breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of your lower back. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by your own shallow breath and the soft, almost imperceptible touch of his fingers against the silk.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You could feel your body tensing, a nervous energy building beneath your skin. It wasn't just the cool air; it was a flash of heat, a sudden, unexpected jolt that shot through you as his hand brushed against your bare skin, a fleeting contact as he smoothed the fabric.

You caught his eye in the vast, antique mirror positioned directly in front of you. His gaze was already there, reflected back, dark and intense. It was a locked stare, a silent acknowledgment of the charged current between you. There was no pretense, no business façade in his eyes now; only a raw, almost predatory focus that mirrored the turmoil in your own chest.

His voice, when it came, was a low whisper, almost a murmur against your bare back, sending shivers down your spine. “Stop shaking,” he commanded, his tone sharp, but laced with an undeniable intimacy. “It ruins the structure.”

Your breath hitched. Stop shaking? The audacity. You weren’t shaking because of the dress, but because of him, because of this unnerving proximity, this unwanted awareness that sparked between you. Anger, hot and sudden, flared through the nervous energy. You bit back, your voice a low, furious whisper that barely left your lips. “Then stop touching me like that.”

The words hung in the air, a direct challenge, an accusation. The tension in the room coiled tighter, reaching an almost unbearable pitch. He straightened slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes still locked with yours in the mirror. For a moment, you thought he might say something, might retort, might even physically step back. But he said nothing. He simply held your gaze for another beat, then turned, a swift, almost violent movement.

The door slammed shut behind him, the sharp crack echoing in the suddenly empty space. You were left alone on the platform, still and rigid, the silk of the dress now feeling like a suffocating vice. You pressed a hand to your chest, your heart still racing, your breath caught in your throat. He had left you breathless, not just from the unexpected intimacy, but from the sheer force of his presence, the unnerving power he held over you.

The runway lights were blinding, a blazing tunnel of white that swallowed the buzzing anticipation of the crowd. You could feel the tremor of the bass from the music, a low thrumming that resonated through the floor. This time, you weren't the show opener, the coveted first spot. That had gone to one of the models who had been whispering behind your back. You were the 2nd one to walk, a significant position nonetheless, carrying the weight of the opening collection’s first impressions.

As you stepped onto the runway, you carried yourself with an almost exaggerated care, each movement precise, measured. The memory of the fitting, of his proximity, of your desperate whisper, still haunted you, a lingering heat on your skin. You were acutely aware of the backless gown, its daring cut, its vulnerable expanse. You felt his eyes on you, somewhere in the dark, watching, always watching. You tried to channel the anger, the frustration, the sheer defiance you felt towards him, towards the industry, into your walk, turning potential weakness into fierce strength.

The crowd was a blur of faces, a sea of cameras flashing. You moved through the kaleidoscope of light, your expression carefully neutral, focused on the end of the runway, on the turn, on making every pose count. And then, it happened. A sudden, terrifying tug. A rip.

A gasp went through the front row. Your mind registered it instantly: a wardrobe malfunction. A seam had given way, or a delicate thread had snapped, and the backless gown, already clinging precariously, shifted, threatening to expose you to the hundreds of eyes fixed upon you. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to surge. This was it. The moment they had all been waiting for. The rookie’s spectacular downfall.

But in that split second, something clicked. The anger, the defiance, the very “war” Yunho had seen in you, took over. You didn't falter. You didn't stop. With a grace that belied the internal storm, you subtly, almost imperceptibly, shifted your weight, angling your body just so, twisting your pose into something new, something unplanned. Your arm, which was meant to be elegantly extended, came up to cover the revealing gap, turning what would have been a disaster into an intentional, powerful gesture. Your head tilted, a silent dare in your eyes. It looked like part of the choreography, a sudden, bold innovation in the walk.

A ripple went through the crowd, not of horror, but of fascination. Murmurs turned into appreciative gasps. The flashes intensified. You hadn't just recovered; you had transformed the mistake into a moment of pure, unadulterated artistry. You handled it with grace, with a raw, improvisational brilliance that defied expectation.

As you completed your walk, the applause was thunderous, louder, more enthusiastic than for any model before you. You hadn't just recovered from a wardrobe malfunction; you had stolen the show. The audience, the critics, the industry, they had witnessed something unexpected, something truly captivating. You had turned a moment of potential humiliation into your triumph, etching your presence into the collective memory of Fashion Week. And somewhere in the dark, you knew, Yunho would have seen it all.

The tension from your last confrontation with Yunho, the sting of words exchanged and the unresolved emotions, still clung to you, a silent hum beneath your skin. You had left his text on ‘seen,’ a small, defiant act, but it hadn’t quelled the turmoil churning within. Three weeks of quiet had passed since that charged exchange, yet the sharp bite of his words and the unsettling intimacy of that final argument lingered like a phantom touch. Now, the preparations for Milan Fashion Week were in full swing, demanding your presence back in his orbit, forcing a proximity you weren't sure you were ready for.

The air backstage for the Seoul collection launch was a chaotic symphony of nervous energy, hairspray fumes, and the rustle of expensive fabrics. Assistants scurried, designers barked last-minute adjustments, and the rhythmic beat of the runway music vibrated through the floorboards. But beneath it all, a more insidious sound permeated the atmosphere: gossip. It slithered through the dressing rooms, echoed in the cramped corridors, and clung to the air like a noxious perfume. Your unexpected triumph at the previous show, your sheer defiance in the face of a wardrobe malfunction, far from silencing your detractors, had only fueled their venom.

“She’s sleeping with the head himself, why would he be calm with only her otherwise?” The question, posed in hushed tones, was a constant refrain, a toxic mantra that followed you like a shadow. You felt their eyes on you, sharp and appraising, whenever you moved. A few models, eyes narrowed with disdain, openly spoke about how you “belonged to a middle-class family,” a thinly veiled insult meant to highlight your perceived lack of pedigree, to mark you as an outsider in their opulent world. Others huddled close, their voices dropping just enough for you to overhear their pointed remarks about how you “weren’t fit enough to be here,” how you were a “fluke,” a “nobody” who had gotten lucky, or worse, used underhanded tactics. Each word was a tiny pinprick, designed to undermine, to chip away at your carefully constructed composure. You ignored them, focusing on the meticulous routine of pre-show prep, but the constant barrage was a silent assault on your sanity, leaving you feeling drained and perpetually on edge.

This show was crucial. Yunho’s rival, his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae, was also releasing a collection today, a direct head-to-head competition for industry dominance that had been simmering for years. Yunho had always loathed Yongjae, a mutual hatred that festered like an open wound between them. Yongjae was known to be a snake, cunning and utterly ruthless, willing to go to any extent for Yunho’s downfall. The stakes were higher than ever, and Yunho, ever the meticulous strategist, had made a rare deviation from his usual aloofness, coming backstage to check on all the models, ensuring every element was flawless. His presence cast a long, imposing shadow, his eyes scanning for the slightest imperfection.

As he moved through the buzzing area, his sharp ears, accustomed to picking up every nuanced sound, caught a snippet of conversation. A voice, dripping with saccharine condescension, pierced through the din. “Honestly, I don’t know what Yunho sees in her. She’s so… provincial. Doesn’t even know how to properly hold her hand on the runway. Probably just good at other things to get his attention.” The words, clearly directed at you, hung in the air like a putrid stench. Yunho froze, his already cold demeanor dropping several degrees. He recognized the voice as belonging to one of his top models, a woman known for her icy perfection and sharp tongue. His eyes, now glinting with a dangerous light, swept over the model, taking in her meticulously styled hair and flawless makeup.

He approached her, his steps silent, his presence a sudden, chilling void in the surrounding chaos. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he brushed against her elaborate hair, then, with a swift, decisive motion, he pulled a handful of pins, causing a cascade of perfectly coiffed waves to collapse around her face. He then swept his hand across her face, his thumb smearing her dramatic winged eyeliner into a black, messy smudge, ruining the pristine artistry. “Your look,” he stated, his voice calm, terrifyingly so, devoid of any anger, yet radiating absolute power, “is destroyed.” He turned to a bewildered assistant. “Get her off the show. Now. She’s a distraction. Unprofessional.” The model gasped, her face crumbling in horror as tears welled in her eyes. She tried to protest, to stammer out an apology, but Yunho was already turning away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake, a clear message delivered without a single raised voice.

You heard about it minutes later, a breathless assistant recounting the scene, eyes wide with shock and fear. A cold fury, mixed with a strange, unsettling flutter in your chest, surged through you. He had defended you. But how? And why? You didn't want to be defended this way, didn't want to be the cause of someone else's public humiliation. You found him near the stage entrance, his back to you, watching the technicians, an inscrutable monument of composure amidst the frantic energy.

You confronted him, your voice sharp, laced with indignation. “What was that? What did you do to her?”

He turned, his expression unreadable, his gaze unwavering. “I took care of a problem.”

“A problem?” you scoffed, stepping closer, your hands clenched at your sides. “You humiliated her. Because of me. Because of some stupid gossip.” You didn’t want to be the reason for such a public spectacle, especially not by his hand. You felt exposed, vulnerable, despite his supposed ‘protection.’

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something possessive in their depths that sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I protect what’s mine—even if it’s stupid enough to think it isn’t.” His voice was low, a dangerous rumble that bypassed your ears and went straight to your gut, demanding compliance. Those damn words again. He was like a robot constantly repeating the same shit over and over again. And you wanted to keep reminding him that you are a human not an object.

The words struck you like a physical blow. What’s mine? It instantly overshadowed any fleeting warmth you might have felt at his intervention. It annoyed her how he treated her as an object, a fucking marketing piece, a prize to be defended, stripped of her agency. You weren’t his. You were your own. “I am not yours!” you practically spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and a sudden, aching hurt. “I am not some possession to be ‘protected.’ I am an employee, Yunho. A person! How many times do I need to remind you!”

This was your second fight , real and raw, stripping away the thin veneer of professionalism you both clung to. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and desires. He took a step towards you, his jaw clenching, but you stood your ground, refusing to be intimidated. "This was just business," he stated, his voice regaining its icy, controlled edge, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as you. "You are MY employee. Nothing more. You have a contract. Don't forget that."

His words, meant to reinforce boundaries, felt like a deliberate slap, designed to cut you down to size. Just business. He let you go, but you saw it, the flicker of something raw in his eyes—a mixture of frustration, confusion, and a hint of a pain he quickly suppressed. You heard the almost imperceptible strain in his jaw as he clenched it hard enough to bruise. He knew, in that gut-wrenching moment, that you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a ‘war’ he wanted to control. You were becoming something unsettlingly vital. But he kept telling himself you weren't anything to him, clinging to the cold logic of business as a lifeline against emotions he wasn’t ready to face.

You turned, your body rigid with suppressed fury, and stormed out, leaving him standing there in the midst of the backstage chaos. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. You wouldn't let his casual dismissal reduce you to nothing. You would show him, and everyone else, that you were more than "his."

When it was your turn to walk the runway, you were a force of nature unleashed. The backless gown, once a source of vulnerability, now felt like a defiant armor..... A new backless dress of the collection. You moved with more sass than ever, your hips swaying with a confident swagger, your head held high. Your eyes were sharp, cutting through the blinding lights, meeting the gaze of the audience with an almost feral intensity that dared anyone to look away. You threw in new poses, which wasn't scripted and Yunho wasn't aware—a sudden, unexpected twist of your torso, a dramatic pause, a powerful pivot that demanded attention, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. It was a walk born of pure defiance, a silent scream against his attempts to categorize and control you. The audience roared, their cheers and applause erupting into a frenzy. It just made fans more happy, their delighted gasps and eager camera flashes confirming your impact. You turned heads, for sure this time. You were not just a model; you were a statement, a revolution in motion.

That night, for the first time since you started working together, the two of you didn't meet.... well..didn't even look at each other. The studio remained silent, empty of your usual late-night conversations. It hit Yunho the most. He was alone in his office, the adrenaline from the show fading, replaced by a hollow ache that gnawed at him. He knew he should be celebrating his success, but all he could taste was the bitterness of your parting words. It was your birthday. He remembered now, with a gut-wrenching pang of guilt. You had never announced your birthday, hating all the unnecessary attention, but you had told him, in some random, unguarded conversation months ago. He had even planned to do a little something, a small, private “sleepover” celebration, a casual night with movies and takeout, because you had grown closer, real good friends, in those odd, intense hours. But in the madness of preparing for the show, for his rivalry with Yongjae, he had forgotten. And then, he had dismissed you, dismissed everything between you, as “stupid business.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth now, a lie he desperately wanted to believe but couldn't.

Three weeks off. Milan was next. Later that night, his phone buzzed with a message. He stared at it for a long moment, then typed, a desperate attempt at re-establishing the brittle professional facade: "Don't be late, Y/N."

Your phone buzzed beside your bed. You picked it up, staring at the screen, the words stark against the dark display. You felt a wave of cold resolve wash over you, solidifying the anger, the hurt, the feeling of being reduced to a mere asset. You didn't type a reply. You simply left him on seen. Let him wonder. Let him feel the silence. Let him drown in the business he so fiercely clung to.

The three weeks off were a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunho’s orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. But the silence didn't quite erase the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition.

The air at Seoul’s Incheon International Airport was thick with the scent of coffee and hurried goodbyes, a stark contrast to the sterile, quiet fury that settled between you and Yunho. You spotted him across the bustling terminal, a magnetic, imposing figure even in civilian clothes. He saw you too, his eyes, usually so unreadable, flickering with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher before hardening into their familiar, cold mask. The boarding process was a blur, a series of efficient movements. You walked ahead, then behind, always maintaining a careful distance. The flight to Milan was silent. Utterly, painstakingly silent. The tension? Immaculate. It was a palpable force, thick and suffocating, filling the space between your seats, a silent scream of unresolved conflict. Neither of you spoke, neither of you dared to break the fragile truce, each lost in your own thoughts, the ghost of sharp words and unspoken desires hanging heavy in the pressurized cabin.

Upon arrival in Milan, the energy was frantic, a whirl of photographers and designers. The silence between you persisted, a stubborn barrier. Rehearsals began almost immediately, a blur of motion and pressure. On the final day of preparations, just hours before the show, Yunho approached you in a private fitting room. His expression was grave, his voice devoid of its usual detached calm, edged with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You will wear the final gown," he stated, not a request, but a command.

You looked at the dress, hanging like a shimmering apparition on a mannequin. It was a masterpiece, breathtaking in its audacity, but also terrifying. The piece was scandalous—a delicate latticework of lace, revealing open sides that curved dramatically from your ribcage to your hips, leaving little to the imagination. The molded bodice was an architectural marvel, designed to cup and lift, accentuating every curve, leaving your figure almost entirely exposed yet meticulously sculpted. It was a gown that didn't just walk the line of decency; it obliterated it. It was daring, provocative, a statement of undeniable power.

You felt a surge of cold dread, a wave of panic. This wasn’t just a dress; it was a challenge, a vulnerability. You had handled a malfunction with grace, but this was intentional, designed to expose. "Yunho," you started, your voice a shaky whisper, "I can't. It's too—"

He cut you off, his voice calm, but with an unwavering certainty that brooked no argument. "You can. And you will." He stepped closer, his gaze intense, piercing through your fear. "You don't wear this for the crowd. You wear it for me."

The words hung in the air, a raw, undeniable intimacy in their declaration. You looked at him, searching his eyes for explanation, for motive, but found only a resolute determination.

The dressing room moment was charged with an almost unbearable intimacy. You stood, rigid with apprehension, as he approached you with the gown. His hands, usually so precise with fabric, moved with an unexpected tenderness as he carefully positioned the delicate lace and the molded bodice against your body. You felt the brush of his fingers on your skin, a faint spark igniting where he touched. He reached behind you, his breath warm against your bare back, as he began to zip her in. The zipper slid slowly, meticulously, the sound amplified in the quiet room. Each inch it climbed, it encased you further in the daring garment, but also, paradoxically, in his presence.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet precision of his movements. He finished, his hands lingering for a fraction of a second at your waist. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met yours in the mirror. “You don’t wear this for the crowd,” he repeated, his voice a low, resonant murmur, almost a private vow. “You wear it for me.” It was a statement of ownership, of trust, of a shared secret.

The words ignited something deep within you. A fire, born of defiance and a strange, exhilarating sense of belonging. The fear melted away, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated power. You didn't just walk out onto that runway; you moved with the confidence of a queen, the grace of a predator. The scandalous gown, which minutes ago had felt like a cage, now felt like an extension of your own skin, a second, defiant armor.

You walked like a goddess. Each step was deliberate, commanding, your body a living sculpture in lace and silk. The open sides revealed glimpses of skin, the molded bodice accentuated your form, but it wasn't vulgar. It was artistry. You owned the scandalous nature of the dress, transforming it from provocation into profound beauty. The crowd gasped, then roared, their flashes a blinding supernova. You didn't just dominate the runway; you transcended it.

From the dark, shadowed recesses of the backstage area, he watched. Yunho. His eyes, usually sharp and critical, were now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He watched you move, a silent intensity consuming him, a silent acknowledgment of the masterpiece you had become under his gaze, for his vision. He watched you, and for the first time, the lines between business and something else blurred beyond recognition.

-----

The roar of the Milan Fashion Week crowd still echoed in your ears, a triumphant symphony that had crowned your performance. The scandalous gown, which had felt like a second skin on the runway, was now carefully packed away, but the electric current of adrenaline still thrummed through your veins, buzzing with an almost manic energy. The afterparty was an explosion of flashing lights, thumping music that vibrated through your bones, and champagne flutes clinking like a thousand tiny bells. You dove into it, a release valve after months of relentless pressure and a suffocating emotional turmoil with Yunho. You drank, freely and without thought, the bubbly liquid a sweet, effervescent escape that quickly began to loosen your inhibitions, blurring the sharp edges of your carefully maintained composure. You weren't a heavy drinker, and tonight, with the accumulated stress of the show and Yunho's unnerving intensity, your tolerance was even lower than usual. Soon, the room began to spin in a dizzying, pleasurable haze, the faces around you merging into a kaleidoscope of indistinct joy and blurred laughter. A reckless abandon, foreign yet exhilarating, took hold.

Across the crowded room, Yunho, a magnetic focal point even in the throng, moved with his usual quiet grace, a solitary king observing his court. He wasn't drinking, or at least, not indulging beyond a single, untouched glass of champagne. He was never one to lose control, his mind always sharp, always calculating, even amidst revelry. But his eyes, perpetually watchful, sought you out in the swirling mass of bodies. He saw the way your laughter grew louder, the way your head tilted back, the way your movements became just a little too fluid, a little too uninhibited. He knew you had a low tolerance for alcohol, a small, intimate detail he’d likely filed away with every other observation about you, a fact that now caused a subtle furrow in his brow. A flicker of something, perhaps concern, perhaps a more complex emotion, passed through his otherwise impassive gaze whenever you threw your head back in laughter or swayed a little too much to the music.

As the night wore on, the joyous buzz began to morph into something heavier. Your head grew warm and hazy, your movements less coordinated, your thoughts drifting in and out of focus. You were adrift in a sea of revelry, but a quiet, almost desperate need for something solid, something real amidst the glittering illusion, began to surface. Suddenly, Yunho was there, materializing beside you like a silent shadow in the pulsating light. His presence, even in your muddled state, was a strange, immediate grounding force, cutting through the alcohol-induced fog.

"You've had enough," he stated, his voice low, a command rather than a suggestion, his gaze steady and unwavering. "I'm leaving. I'll give you a ride."

Too drunk to argue, too tired to resist, and too emotionally spent to care about propriety, you nodded, swaying slightly. The thought of a quiet exit, away from the pounding music and flashing lights, was surprisingly appealing, a siren song promising stillness. He led you out of the thrumming party, his hand resting lightly, almost possessively, on the small of your back, guiding you through the thinning crowds, his touch a silent, electric current you were too numb to fully process.

The Milan night air was cool and crisp, a welcome shock to your system that momentarily cleared your head before the warmth of the alcohol rushed back. The ride in his sleek, silent car was a blur of city lights and the soft, almost hypnotic hum of the engine. You were too far gone to direct him, and honestly, you didn't much care where you were going. You just wanted stillness, a place to land, a moment of reprieve from the constant emotional warfare. So it was no surprise when the car pulled up to a grand, anonymous building—his Milan apartment, an extension of his own austere, perfect aesthetic.

He helped you out, his arm supporting you as you stumbled slightly on the curb. The elevator ride up was silent, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife, even through your alcohol-induced haze. Once inside his spacious, minimalist apartment, the silence amplified, wrapping around you both. The sprawling living space, with its clean lines and expensive, understated furnishings, felt vast and strangely intimate. You stood awkwardly in the center of the room, feeling the dizzying effects of the alcohol finally begin to recede, replaced by a raw, unvarnished clarity that only truly drunk people ever experience, a stark mirror to your deepest, most suppressed feelings.

You turned to him, your gaze unwavering, even if your balance was still precarious. The soft glow of the city lights filtering through the tall windows cast long shadows around him, making him seem even more imposing, more unattainable. You had so many questions, so much unspoken anger and hurt, fueled by the champagne that had stripped away your usual filters, leaving you exposed and unafraid.

“Still think I don’t belong in your world,” you slurred, your voice thick but firm, each word a desperate challenge, “or is this still business, Jeong fucking Yunho?” With that, a dizzy spell hit, your foot catching on nothing, and he, with a flash of quick reflexes born of instinct, catches you.

His hands shot out, grabbing your waist carefully, steadying you. Your body pressed against his, the unexpected contact sending a jolt through you, igniting a dangerous spark that even your drunken state couldn’t entirely dampen. The heat of his body radiated against yours, a shocking warmth that bypassed your skin and went straight to your core. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but daring, seeing the sudden flicker of raw desire in his, a brief, unguarded moment where his control slipped. You were too drunk for your own good. Too drunk. Too bold. Too daring. Every fiber of your being screamed for release, for answers, for connection.

The moment stretched, electric and fraught. You could feel his grip tighten slightly on your waist, your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Your drunken mind, liberated from inhibition, saw only the opportunity, the raw, undeniable attraction that had simmered between you for months, now blazing to the surface. You leaned in, eyes fixed on his lips, desperate to close the distance, to finally bridge the chasm of their professional facade. You tried to kiss him, your lips already parting, seeking his, but his quick reflexes were even faster, a wall of desperate restraint. His hand, lightning fast, came up, covering your mouth, his palm pressing firmly against your lips, a soft but unyielding barrier. Instead of kissing him, you ended up kissing his own hand, the soft skin of his palm a surprising, frustrating shield against your desperate advance.

His breath hitched, a harsh, ragged sound in the quiet room. His eyes were wide, suddenly laced with a mixture of shock and desperate, agonizing restraint. He didn't move his hand, but his body language screamed caution, screamed of an internal battle of immense proportions. He was a man holding onto the last threads of his self-control. He needed to stay away from you, hell away, a silent mantra screaming in his mind. He needed to stay away from you before he does something she will hate him more for. Or worse, he won't forgive himself for. You, with your fiery spirit and unyielding defiance, were too pure, too bright, too good for his complicated, often dark world. He knew he didn't deserve you, not after all the darkness he carried. You might have an attitude, might be sharp-tongued, might be a 'war,' but beneath it all, you were too kind, too kind for his world… too kind for her own good. His grip on your waist loosened, his hand still covering your mouth, his gaze distant, tormented.

He released your waist, though his hand still covered your mouth for a moment longer, a lingering ghost of his control. Then, with a practiced strength that belied his inner turmoil, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly. You felt yourself being lifted, a strange mix of disappointment and reluctant surrender washing over you. The world swayed gently as he moved through the silent apartment, past the gleaming kitchen and expansive living area, until he reached a bedroom. He gently laid you in his bed, the soft mattress cradling your exhausted body, the cool sheets a welcome embrace.

He stood over you for a moment, his gaze intense, a battle raging in his eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily. You watched him through heavy eyelids, the alcohol still fogging your senses, but your awareness of him, of his presence, was painfully clear. He reached out, his hand hovering over your forehead, a silent deliberation. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, he leaned down. He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he had to let you go, to make you quit. It was the only way to protect you from the ugliness he knew was coming, from the fragmented, brutal world he inhabited, a world that would inevitably scar you. He kissed your head with overwhelming affection, a soft, almost lingering touch that felt like probably his last time, a silent, desperate goodbye. He had to let her go, make her quit. For her sake.

He pulled back, his face a mask of determined resignation, a profound sadness etched around his eyes. He turned away from the bed, moving towards the couch in the same room. He knew your habit of nightmares, a vulnerable detail you had shared in some random, late-night conversation back in Seoul, a moment of unguarded intimacy that he had pretended to ignore but had, of course, absorbed fully, filing it away. He slept on the room couch that night, his form rigid, his mind churning, just in case you needed something in your sleep—a silent vigil, a final act of quiet, desperate protection before he pushed you away for good, before he severed the connection he was terrified of acknowledging. The soft glow of the city outside painted the room in muted silver, a quiet witness to his silent, lonely torment.

The first rays of Milan’s morning sun, thin and pale, filtered through the apartment windows, painting the luxurious room in hues of soft grey and cool gold. You stirred, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes, the remnants of champagne still fuzzing your senses. Disorientation gave way to a slow, creeping awareness: you were in Yunho’s bed, in Yunho’s apartment. A flush of heat, of shame and a strange, unwelcome longing, spread through you as last night’s hazy memories clicked into place—the daring challenge, the drunken stumble, his quick hands on your waist, the brush of his palm against your lips, the gentle act of him carrying you. And then, the distant, aching memory of his lips on your forehead, a kiss that felt like a goodbye.

You pushed yourself up, heart thudding, and scanned the room. Your eyes landed on the couch, where Yunho lay, rigid and unmoving. He looked like a sculpture carved from ice, his face devoid of emotion, his body held with an almost military precision even in sleep. A pang of hurt, sharp and unexpected, pierced through you. You had seen a vulnerable side of him last night, a raw desperation in his eyes, a flicker of something almost tender. You had felt a fleeting connection, a shared understanding in the suffocating silence of his apartment. Now, in the stark light of day, he was a stranger again.

He woke with the suddenness of a predator, his eyes snapping open. He didn’t stir, didn’t acknowledge your presence with a glance or a word. He merely stared at the ceiling for a moment, then rose from the couch with a fluid, almost dismissive movement. He was distant. Sharp. Silent. He moved with a chilling efficiency, heading straight for the bathroom, not once looking your way. The silence he projected was a wall, thick and impenetrable.

It hurt her, a deep, agonizing ache in your chest. It wasn't just disappointment; it was a profound sense of abandonment. He was acting as if nothing had happened, as if the intimate moments of the night, the unspoken words, the desperate grab for connection, had simply vanished with the dawn. No soft talks, no subtle glances, no gentle reassurances. He was a colder man than you had ever seen him, more frigid than his usual professional demeanor. This deliberate erasure of intimacy, this calculated distance, caused pain for him too, like daggers being twisted in him. He could feel the ache in his own chest, the profound sense of loss even as he enforced it. He knew he was breaking something precious, but he truly believed it was for your own good.

You rose from the bed, feeling exposed and raw. The silk sheets, which had felt so soft last night, now felt cold, like a judgment. You quickly found your clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of his silence. He emerged from the bathroom, dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, his hair impeccably styled, looking every inch the formidable mogul. He glanced at you, a fleeting, dismissive sweep of his eyes that offered no warmth, no recognition of the woman he had held just hours before. He then moved directly to the small kitchen, preparing his coffee, his back to you.

You stood there, a knot forming in your stomach, a bitter taste in your mouth. You had realized that you loved him, a truth that had solidified in the haze of champagne and the alarming intimacy of last night. You loved his sharp mind, his ruthless ambition, the surprising moments of vulnerability, the way he saw something in you that others couldn't. But he didn’t want to even try. Maybe he was right, you thought, the cruel logic of his actions echoing in your mind. Maybe you weren't meant for his world, a world where warmth could be discarded with the rising sun, where emotions were dangerous liabilities.

The flight back to Seoul was a torment. He ignored you completely. Not with overt disdain, but with a chilling, absolute absence of acknowledgement. He buried himself in work, reviewing documents, making calls, his focus absolute. You, sitting just a few seats away, felt like a ghost, invisible, irrelevant. Each passing minute solidified your resolve. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t exist in a space where you were alternately seen as a prize, then discarded as inconsequential.

Back in Seoul, the studio, usually a place of exhilarating energy, now felt stifling. He said nothing to you, offered no explanation, no apology. He simply plunged back into fittings, into meetings, into the relentless grind of getting back to work. You spiraled. The emotional whiplash was too much. The constant barrage of rumors, the emotional distance, the shattering realization that your feelings for him were unreciprocated or, worse, deliberately ignored—it all culminated in one decisive thought: you were done.

You approached his assistant, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I quit,” you stated, the words feeling both terrifying and liberating. You packed your few personal belongings, leaving the studio that had been your battlefield, your sanctuary, and ultimately, your heartbreak. You walked out into the busy city streets, the setting sun casting long shadows, your heart heavy but your decision firm.

He watched you walk away—from the window of his office, from a fitting room, you weren't sure. But you knew he saw you. And he didn’t stop you. A part of him screamed to run after you, to pull you back, to explain the tangled mess of his fear and love and responsibility. But another part, the cold, calculating part, the part that truly believed it was protecting you, held him rooted to the spot. It was better, he told himself, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. Many other brands wanted you; you would do just fine, perhaps even better, freed from his complicated world. Though his empire would have to deal with a huge blow, losing his muse, his 'war,' would cripple the very essence of his next collection.

He wanted to protect you. He wanted to protect you from how his world truly operated, from the hidden cruelties no one knew of, the brutal, unacknowledged war between him and his stepbrother that could scar you forever. His family, though wealthy, was a desolate landscape, stranded with fragments of dead threads, riddled with betrayals and unspoken resentments. Whereas yours, though a simple middle-class family, was always happy, always whole. They were together in the ups and downs, finding joy in simple moments, connected by genuine warmth. That was the profound difference. Some people amassed immense wealth, only to find themselves suffocated by a joyless existence. Others, though middle class, lived at their fullest, truly experiencing life. And he, Yunho, was too deeply entrenched in the suffocating emptiness of his own world to ever truly offer you the vibrant life you deserved. Let her go, his inner voice screamed. Let her breathe.

The days following your departure from Yunho's studio blurred into a monochrome existence. You had quit, left everything behind, and yet, the ghost of Yunho, of his sharp words and colder silences, remained. You tried to fill the void, taking walks through quiet parks, rediscovering the simple joys of your middle-class life that felt a world away from the gleaming, cutthroat halls of high fashion. The industry, however, wasn't done with Yunho, or with you.

Just as you began to find a semblance of peace, the headlines exploded. "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The news reports were grim, detailing a severe accident, a truck that had veered into his luxury car. The shock was immediate and visceral, a cold dread seizing your stomach. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite everything, the thought was unbearable.

The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The truck driver, the reports stated, had killed himself after the crash. More likely, you knew, murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly game. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded.

In the wake of the accident, Yunho can’t design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Paris, was unfinished. It hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He threw away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable.

As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs.

Headlines screamed Yunho’s demise: “Fashion Empire in Peril: Yunho’s Paris Show Canceled!” The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum.

And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunho’s cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunho’s stepbrother approaching y/n with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.

NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.

Y/N’s POV:

You were taking a walk, enjoying the mundane comfort of grocery runs, deliberately immersing yourself in the normalcy you had missed. The sun was warm on your face, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. Your phone was tucked away, your mind blessedly free of deadlines and runway music. As you exited the mart, bags in hand, a sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. Your breath hitched. Out stepped Jeong Yongjae, Yunho’s stepbrother, radiating an oily charm that instantly set your teeth on edge. He was handsome, in a way that felt manipulative, his smile too wide, his eyes too calculating.

“Well, well, well,” he purred, his voice like velvet over gravel. “The runaway star. A bird without a cage.” He approached you, hands casually in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving proprietary air. “Heard Yunho’s lost his touch. And his muse, apparently.”

You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jeong.”

He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “Oh, you know. He’s in a bit of a bind. And frankly, Y/N, you’re too good to be tied to a sinking ship. Or a man who can’t even hold onto his vision without you.” He took another step closer, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice. “My new collection. It’s bigger, bolder, far more avant-garde than anything my dear stepbrother could ever dream of. And I want you to be the face of it. Think of the exposure. Think of the freedom. Think of the pay, Y/N. I’m prepared to offer you double the pay, more profit, a partnership Yunho could never conceive of.” He painted a picture of endless opportunity, of a world where you were truly celebrated, truly free.

You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunho’s quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Jeong,” you said, your voice calm, steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. “But I’m not interested.” You began to walk away, your grocery bags swinging slightly.

He scoffed, momentarily taken aback by your refusal. “Don’t be foolish, girl. This is your chance to truly rise. He let you go, didn’t he? Let you walk away when he needed you most. He called you ‘just business’.”

That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth. But it also solidified your resolve. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “I already have a contract,” you stated, your voice clear and firm. “And my loyalty isn’t for sale.”

You kept walking, faster now, leaving him standing there, his predatory smile replaced by a scowl of frustrated surprise. You pulled out your phone, your fingers flying across the screen. You knew this was risky. You knew it would invite more drama, more scrutiny. But you also knew it had to be done. You opened the social media app, ‘X’.

Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.

Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion

You hit post.

It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadn’t truly walked away.

-----

The three weeks off had been a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunho’s orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. Yet, the silence hadn't quite erased the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition. The flight had been a silent torment, the tension between you a palpable, suffocating force.

The headlines screamed of disaster: "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The words blared from every screen, every newsstand, shattering the fragile peace you had found. A cold dread seized your stomach, twisting into a painful knot. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite every sharp word, every frustrating encounter, the thought of him, broken and vulnerable, was unbearable. The world spun in a sickening lurch, and all you could think was, no, not like this.

The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The official reports claimed the truck driver had committed suicide after the crash, a narrative so thin it barely held together. You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that he had been murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly, terrifying game, played with lives. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded in convenient ambiguities.

In the wake of the accident, Yunho can’t design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Milan, hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured, though his arm was in a sling, his movements stiff; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He lashed out, not with his usual calculated precision, but with raw frustration, throwing away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable, consumed by a darkness that even his closest confidantes couldn't penetrate.

As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift, spiraling into a void. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs, a king dethroned by his own despair.

Later, in a moment of raw, desperate honesty that would have shocked anyone who knew him, Yunho whispered while burning the drafts of his new collection, "She was the collection." His words were a guttural confession of loss, of an irreplaceable muse. He was burning more than paper; he was burning the last vestiges of his self-delusion, the bitter truth that his art, his vision, had become irrevocably intertwined with you.

Headlines screamed Yunho’s demise: “Fashion Empire in Peril: Yunho’s Milan Show Canceled!” The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum, a new king to claim his throne.

And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunho’s cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunho’s stepbrother approaching the Reader with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.

Y/N’s POV: (NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.)

You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jeong.”

You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunho’s quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit, the raw hurt that flashed in them during your last fight. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent, his promises laced with poison.

That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth, igniting the old wounds. But it also solidified your resolve. It reminded you of Yunho’s cowardice, yes, but also of the sheer audacity you had found in yourself to walk away. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “I already have a contract,” you stated, your voice clear and firm, imbued with a conviction that surprised even yourself. “And my loyalty isn’t for sale.”

Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.

Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion

You hit post, a small, trembling tremor running through your hand, but your heart swelling with a strange, fierce pride.

It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again, his fingers tracing the glowing text. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the gnawing pain of his injuries. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to desperate hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadn’t truly walked away. The thought was a lifeline in the darkness that had threatened to consume him.

Yunho called you, his voice low and hesitant, raspy from disuse and the lingering effects of his injuries—a stark contrast to his usual commanding tone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the phone line humming with the weight of unspoken apologies and festering wounds.

“Y/N,” he began, the name a raw plea, stripped bare of all pretense. “I… I need you.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, an admission of vulnerability so profound it made your breath catch.

You listened, the anger and hurt still simmering, but a flicker of something else, a strange, undeniable pull, tugging at your resolve. You pictured him, confined and broken, stripped of the power that usually defined him. He spoke of his new vision, his voice gaining a shaky passion as he described a collection born from the ashes of his accident and your departure. He spoke of rebirth, of defiance, of a phoenix rising from the flames, not just for his brand, but for himself. And then, he said the words that finally broke through your carefully constructed walls, the words that finally acknowledged the truth you both had denied for so long.

“This collection is you, Y/N. It’s your fire, your strength, your refusal to be broken. Your loyalty, even when I deserved none. I… I can’t do it without you. I realize that now.” His voice was raw, etched with a desperate honesty that shattered your defenses. It wasn't just about business anymore; it was about his soul.

You returned to the studio, not as a submissive employee, but as a collaborator, a muse, an equal. The atmosphere had shifted. The whispers had died down, replaced by a hushed respect, almost reverence. The models, once your rivals, now looked at you with a newfound admiration, a silent acknowledgment of your unyielding spirit. Yunho, too, was profoundly different. The cold, calculating facade had not just cracked; it had splintered, revealing a vulnerability, a raw intensity that was both unnerving and undeniably compelling. He moved slower, spoke softer, his eyes holding a depth of unspoken regret and gratitude whenever they met yours.

The new collection was a revelation. It was bold, daring, an explosion of color and texture that defied the industry's usual expectations. It was a story told in fabric and light, a testament to resilience, to the power of rebirth, to the fire that burned in you. And at the heart of it all was you. Every stitch, every drape, every line seemed to resonate with your essence.

The Paris show was a triumph, a phoenix rising from the ashes of tragedy. You walked the runway with a fire in your eyes, a fierce confidence that bordered on defiance. The clothes moved with you, echoing your strength, your vulnerability, your refusal to be defined. The crowd roared, their applause a thunderous ovation, a collective release of awe and emotion.

As you took your final bow, the blinding lights momentarily obscuring the audience, Yunho stepped onto the runway. He was still pale, his arm still subtly favoring his injury, but his posture was upright, resolute. His gaze, usually sharp and critical, was now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He didn't speak, didn't offer a gesture of triumph. He simply stood there, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that words could never capture: gratitude, regret, admiration, and a profound, aching love. He saw you, truly saw you, for the first time, not as a means to an end, but as the very essence of his redemption.

That night, in the quiet aftermath of the show, the adrenaline slowly fading, he found you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and celebration, but between you, the silence hummed with anticipation. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, hovering for a moment before gently cupping your cheek. His touch was a revelation—warm, hesitant, profoundly tender.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, barely audible above the distant sounds of the party. "You saved me. From myself. From everything."

You looked at him, your heart aching with a mixture of love and a lingering, fragile fear. Your own hand reached up, covering his on your cheek. "I didn't save you, Yunho," you said softly, your voice thick with unshed tears. "We saved each other."

And then, finally, he kissed you. It wasn't a kiss of possession or control, but of surrender, of a shared vulnerability, of a desperate, long-denied love finally breaking free. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. It was a beginning, not an end. The final chapter in a storm, but the breathless, uncertain, terrifying start of a story that was still being written, stitch by painful stitch, between two souls who had found light in each other's darkness.

The kiss, a desperate confession under the lingering stage lights of Paris, was the fragile bridge between the past and a terrifyingly uncertain future. It was a silent agreement, a profound acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you, a silent vow to explore the uncharted territory of what you now felt for each other. The afterparty became a distant hum as you and Yunho, hand in hand, slipped away from the triumphant chaos, seeking the quiet sanctuary of his Paris penthouse.

That night, you drove him, the sleek car a silent cocoon cutting through the city. He was leaning heavily on you, his injured arm a constant reminder of the fragility of his world, and the brutal reality of his family's war. Once at his penthouse, you guided him, gently but firmly. His usual sharp edges were softened by pain and exhaustion, his imperious demands replaced by a quiet vulnerability that both startled and compelled you. You helped him shed his tailored jacket, careful of his arm, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his back. You brewed him a soothing tea, the fragrant steam rising between you, a small act of domesticity that felt profound in its intimacy.

He fell onto the vast, minimalist sofa, pulling you down with him, his body a heavy, comforting weight against yours. He settled, his head finding rest on your stomach, his good arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You felt his breath ghost against your shirt, a silent rhythm that filled the quiet room. Instinctively, your hands reached for his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, a tender embrace.

As he drifted into sleep, his grip on you firm, you stared at the ceiling, a silent fury simmering beneath your calm exterior. You hated the people who had twisted him, hardened him, leaving him with such deep, mental scars of insecurity and isolation. And the bitter truth was, the primary architect of his pain, the cause of the crash that could have killed him, was his own stepbrother, Yongjae. A fierce, protective resolve settled deep in your bones. Karma, you knew, would take too long. You had decided to be Karma herself. You would, and you will, gather proof. You would make Yongjae pay. Many called you a bitch for your sharp tongue and unyielding stance. And indeed, karma is a bitch.

The return to Seoul was not a retreat, but a strategic regrouping. The world was still buzzing with Yunho's accident and your defiant loyalty. News outlets churned out stories, photos of you together, fueling speculation about the "power couple" of fashion. Yunho, however, was deaf to the external noise. He was consumed by a singular, obsessive drive: to design a new collection, unlike anything he had ever created.

He threw himself into the work, ignoring his lingering pain, pushing himself to the brink. You were there, a constant presence. You saw the shadows under his eyes, the clenching of his jaw as he fought through the creative block. You were his anchor, his fire, his relentless support. Your scoldings—gentle but firm reminders to rest, to eat, to not push himself too hard—were met with grumbles, but he always listened. Your cooking, simple but nourishing, became his sustenance, a small act of care that grounded him in the chaos.

In an unprecedented feat of sheer will and shared vision, Yunho redesigned the entire show in one week. It was a collection born of anguish and defiance, sculpted by pain, tempered by your unwavering presence. This show would be a declaration, a statement of rebirth, a testament to the muse who had pulled him back from the brink.

The final runway was set. There would be one model. One collection. One muse. You.

You walked every look. Each garment was a testament to the raw, visceral journey you both had endured. You owned the runway, transforming from fierce warrior to ethereal goddess, from understated elegance to provocative art. Every step was deliberate, every turn a statement. Your body, the canvas, narrated Yunho's agonizing rebirth, his defiance, his devotion. The audience watched, spellbound, as you moved through the meticulously crafted narrative of fabric and light.

They had created history. Yunho had not just designed a collection; he had engraved you in the history of fashion. It was the first show which was carried out by only one model, a singular vision brought to life by your undeniable power.

The final piece was breathtaking, a masterpiece of exquisite design and profound meaning. It was a second skin, molded to your form, stitched into her skin-tight, a garment so daring, so intimate, it felt like an extension of your very being. As you turned, bathed in the blinding lights, the back of the gown, meticulously crafted, revealed a silent message. In bold, crimson thread, stark against the fabric, were two simple, powerful letters: “YH // For Her”. It was a public declaration, a permanent etching of his gratitude, his devotion, his ownership—not of a muse, but of the woman who was his universe.

After the lights faded, after the thunderous applause finally began to die down, he met you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and triumph, but all that mattered was the space between you. There were no words needed, no grand pronouncements. Just a shared gaze, fraught with the weight of everything you had overcome. He reached for you, his hands shaking as they cradled your face, pulling you in. Your hearts, ruined by the past, now beat in a synchronized rhythm, a desperate symphony of two souls finally finding their anchor.

He kissed you. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. When he finally pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was a ragged whisper, raw with emotion.

“You were never just wearing my work,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You were wearing me... you were carrying my empire, Y/N.”

And in that moment, you knew. The battle with Yongjae was far from over. The world would continue to challenge you. But you would face it together, two souls irrevocably bound, ready to fight, and to build, an empire stitched not just from fabric, but from devotion.

....The end? Uh......no.

---

A/n: Hie, my lovies! That's a happy ending for sure. But I do plan on posting a extra chapter in addition to this fanfic. In a few days probably, extra chapter will be smaller compared to this. Just a bit of vengeance against people who hurt yunho. And a bolder and cruel side of the reader itself. Love y'll! - Katha

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justakaku · 8 months ago

Text

Confidentiality - Chapter 8. - yandere!ATEEZ OT8 x f!reader

Introduction: Joining a peer support group for mentally ill was a good idea for the last two times you were there. Then it's only natural for the third time to go well too, right?

Pairings: yandere!Hongjoong x reader, yandere!Seonghwa x reader, yandere!Yunho x reader, yandere!Yeosang x reader, yandere!San x reader, yandere!Mingi x reader, yandere!Wooyoung x reader, yandere!Jongho x reader

T/W: This story will include talk about mental health struggles such as body dysmorphia, paranoid thoughts and more. Possessive and obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, violence. Dark themes are to be expected. A brief situation of harassment (not by any of the members) in this chapter. A/N: Forgive me for the long wait! I hope the chapter won't be disappointing or incoherent... I like writing this story but my own judgmental thoughts honestly are a kill of joy. I'm happy to receive feedback, be it constructive criticism or positive words. I hope someone will enjoy this <3 Word count: 4 062 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once again, you held the phone to your ear. The sound of the phone ringing was quiet and stable but it did not lessen your anxiety at all. Eventually it stopped ringing, leaving you in heavy silence.

Jongho hadn’t answered this time either. You had tried to call him at least 20 times in a span of couple days, but it was like he had disappeared from the face of the Earth. Despite being upset at him, you were more worried than you wanted to admit. You also missed him, his stoic nature, and the unexpected moments of sweetness.

Frustrated, you tossed the phone away. Was Jongho so childish and stubborn that he hid from you on purpose after you had kicked him out of your home? Or could he be in danger? You couldn’t help but feel bad for banishing him. That was how he probably wanted you to feel, but there was nothing to do about the feeling.

Spring, the season of hope and new beginnings, was near so the weather was warming up. Still, it was already late in the evening. The nights at that time of the year were still cold, and you grabbed a warm jacket; one that did not attract attention. You feared the possibility that some creep would notice and follow you in the dimly lit streets of the little city you lived in.

Maybe in another life you would have liked walks outside. But this world was evil. If you already hated being outside even in the daylight, when the moon rose on the sky, your senses were heightened to a maximum.

The walk to Jongho’s place wasn’t practically that long despite it being on a completely different area of the city. He actually lived in a house instead of a crappy, crampy apartment like you did.

You were always astonished by his house. It was of an appropriate size but screamed how rich he was. A slightly annoyed huff fell from your lips as you thought about how he had said you couldn’t go ice skating for it being too expensive. Dude lived in the most prestigious area of the city but complained about the cost of ice skating. The memory made you smile nonetheless.

There was a gate separating his yard and house from the street. You rang the doorbell on it, wishing sincerely he’d let you in or at least talk to you.

The weather wasn’t windy but you still felt cold. Maybe Jongho would see you shivering and let you in out of pity. That is if he was even alive anymore.

The house stood dark and tall in front of you, and the only thing separating you from Jongho was the gate. Your heart clenched at the unbearable thought of having lost him forever. Losing his friendship felt even harder knowing that you had never had much friends in the first place.

After 10 minutes, you walked away from the house, steps heavy with disappointment. You had driven Jongho away with your anger. It was difficult to remember in that moment that your anger had been completely justified. You just wanted to see Jongho again.

As if the situation hadn’t been depressing enough already, small, cool drops of water fell on your skin. Even the sky was crying with you.

You kept walking, bravely telling yourself that you didn’t care about the rain turning into a downpour. But eventually, it started bothering you too much. It was cold, wet and dark, and you felt yourself getting frustrated.

You found a shelter next to a small grocery store that was nearing its closing hours. Sure, it would have been wiser to go inside the store to warm up for a moment, but you were just going to stay in the shelter for a moment for the rain to stop.

Some people walked past you out of the store occasionally but you were too deep in your thoughts to pay attention to it. Then a voice of a man clearly talking to you snapped you out of it.

“Waiting for the rain to stop, huh?”

“Yeah,” you glanced at the man quickly, not wanting to give him too much attention.

Noticing that the middle-aged man was dressed up in dirty clothes and reeked of alcohol made you already uneasy. But the look in his dazed eyes was more concerning; he eyed you up and down, and smiled at you. It was not a kind nor inviting smile. It was a predatory smile flashed at you with yellow teeth.

“I can wait with you so you won’t be lonely.”

You felt your heartrate speed up. There was no way that man had good intentions with the way he shifted closer to you.

“Thanks, but there’s no need to... Your groceries should be taken to your fridge quickly before they get bad.”

Your attempt to politely refuse his offer didn’t work.

“Oh, sweet girl. Don’t worry, I don’t have any purchases that need immediate care,” the man grinned and moved closer once again to show the contents of his plastic bag.

It didn’t surprise you to find the bag was filled with beer bottles. You had to come up with a new excuse.

“What about your wife? She’s surely waiting for you already.”

“Hm? You’re prettier than her. Not so wrinkly and not always nagging about my drinking.”

You felt disgusted on so many levels; the man had no right to talk that way about his wife when he looked like a malformed abomination of a rat that had escaped from the sewers. Hell, no man should talk about their own wife like that, no matter the looks.

“A pretty girl like you deserves a man like me. Young men nowadays are so feminine and sensitive,” the man smirked arrogantly, “A true man knows his own power and how to use it to his advantage.”

Your hand slipped inside your pocket. It was not for warmth but for reaching the pepper spray. Everyone used to laugh at you for carrying that because you’d probably never have to use it. But you’d have the last laugh.

“What are you hiding in your pockets?” the man’s eyes were directed at your hands, a deep frown settling on his face.

“J-Just warming up my hands.”

“Bullshit. Are you trying to call the police on me?”

If you were afraid before, now you were definitely terrified. How could you even use the pepper spray when your hands were trembling in fear?

“You stupid bitch. What did I even do? Women don’t appreciate compliments these days anymore!” the man shouted angrily, and instead of standing lazily like before, he turned his body wholly towards you.

You couldn’t freeze in that moment. No way in hell were you going to let that man touch you.

But as you were about to pull the pepper spray from your pocket, a familiar voice caught both your and the man’s attention.

“Step away from her.”

Your head snapped into the direction of the voice, and you noticed; Yunho stood there, firm and commanding. For the first time in your life, you saw him in a good light. The long coat he wore could have been a superhero cloak, that’s how grateful you were.

“Who are you to command me like that?” the drunkard scoffed at Yunho.

But as Yunho walked closer, the man seemingly realized how much taller Yunho was, how much at disadvantage the man was.

“I’m telling you one last time to step away and leave immediately.”

“Pfft. What are you? A policeman?” the man attempted to assert dominance and show off his fragile masculinity.

“In fact, I am. Although I’m off-duty, I have a couple weapons with me,” Yunho said, clearly not intimidated at all, “I won’t shoot you but I can guarantee that getting tazed doesn’t feel pleasant either.”

To emphasize his words, Yunho pulled out a taser and swung it in his hands. The other man’s defiant expression morphed into a pathetic look of fear.

“Sorry, man. I’ll go,” the man rushed away like there was a tail between his legs.

You looked at Yunho with admiration. Even the guilt for doubting his intentions and nature before didn’t shake your mind at that moment; you just needed desperately to show your appreciation for him.

Still, the best you could do was look at Yunho with wide eyes and utter a few words.

“Thank you.”

Yunho smiled, looking almost giddy when you talked to him, “I just did my duty.”

“Your duty as a policeman?”

“Yes, but mostly my duty as your personal protector.”

A little giggle left your lips at Yunho’s comment. There was a warm feeling of gratitude in your chest. Yunho had never been a bad man after all although acting quite weirdly occasionally.

“I’m more than just grateful. You saved me from a dangerous situation.”

Yunho’s cheeks flushed and an adorable, sheepish smile spread on his lips. Having been always suspicious of him, you hadn’t realized before how sweet he looked every time you talked to him.

“Let me walk you home. You must be scared after meeting that creep,” Yunho extended his hand out for you. In his other hand he held an umbrella which had a Spiderman print.

What was the worst thing that could happen if you took his hand in yours?

You felt like the company of a man who had proven his good intentions would bring you safety on your way home. You grabbed Yunho’s large hand in yours, feeling comforted yet a little nervous.

“So, you like Spiderman?”

Yunho chuckled at your question. He seemed overjoyed to walk hand-in-hand with you even though it was raining cats and dogs.

“He’s what I want to become. A hero.”

You smiled softly and couldn’t resist the temptation to say something corny, “You’re already my hero.”

Yunho laughed heartily and glanced at you. His eyes were twinkling, replacing the stars that couldn’t be seen that night due to the clouded sky.

“What are you doing out this late anyways?” he inquired.

The air felt a little colder again as your thoughts wandered to Jongho.

“Jongho has disappeared. I’ve tried to contact him but there’s no answer,” you revealed, “I went to his house tonight in hopes of finding him there, but it’s like he’s avoiding me.”

Something flickered in Yunho’s eyes for a split second before a thoughtful look set on his face. He squeezed your hand a little.

“That must be rough. He’s your boyfriend after all.”

“Well, not anymore. There was an incident that led to me breaking up with him,” you muttered.

The man next to you nodded and spoke again, “I can help you find him. I’m a policeman, you know? We may not have enough reason to report him as missing, but I have my knowledge of finding missing people as my offer.”

Yunho’s hand may have been warm but the smile on his face was even warmer; it comforted you.

When the two of you eventually stood at your doorstep, Yunho’s reluctance to let go of your hand was clear. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay? The man must have scared you badly.”

You let go of Yunho’s hand to pull the pepper spray out of your pocket.

“You’re my favorite hero but this one will come in handy sometimes too,” you chuckled.

Yunho smiled, “Just call me whenever you need help with anything. And I mean anything.”

You offered your phone for Yunho to type in his number. Suddenly, he frowned.

“Why is your home screen wallpaper a picture of you and Yeosang?” he asked, voice a few degrees colder than before.

It was strange to see that sweet man get so worked up over a simple picture.

“Yeosang is practically my only friend. I like to have a reminder of that now I have someone to rely on.”

The embarrassment in your voice was clear as you were forced to explain your sad situation of friendships. At least Yunho’s expression softened.

“I’ll be your friend from now on. Make sure to spend time with me... and change that wallpaper,” Yunho spoke.

The next week Jongho wasn’t at the group therapy meeting. Just like the week before, he was gone, leaving you worried. But at least now you had someone who would be able to help search for him.

The room felt so empty without him but no-one else seemed to care.

Charlotte didn’t even question Jongho’s absence that time, just moving straight to the activities of the day.

“Find yourself a pair,” Charlotte guided with a mysterious smile, “I won’t tell you what the activity is yet.”

Wooyoung and San paired up immediately, and Seonghwa and Hongjoong glanced at each other in agreement. They had found their cliques, the person who they got along with the best. It was beyond your understanding though how someone as sweet as Seonghwa could like Hongjoong.

You didn’t even have time to get up from your seat when Yunho had appeared in front of you like out of thin air. You felt a little intimidated and small while he stood over you, but the fear you used to feel around him was gone. He was just a gentle giant, the hero who had saved you from a situation that could have escalated.

“Be my pair,” Yunho requested.

His request was tempting but there was someone else standing a little farther away, looking at you longingly; it was Yeosang.

“I think Yeosang wants-”

“Please,” Yunho said, voice soft and almost vulnerable.

You didn’t want to betray Yeosang but Yunho’s sad look tugged at your heartstrings. It didn’t take too long for you to give an apologetic look to Yeosang and a nod for Yunho.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Yeosang walk over to Mingi and pair up with him. You’d apologize to Yeosang later.

Yunho sat down next to you, his long legs brushing against yours briefly. Now that he was sitting next to you just like the first time you met, he seemed satisfied.

“The topic of today is relationships to other people. Discuss with your partner about the person who has the most meaning in your life right at this moment,” Charlotte revealed the task.

That was the hardest topic for you so far. There had never been much people to start with who would have cared about you as you cared about them. It was a curse to love but to be unable to be loved. Sometimes you wished upon the stars that you could stop caring about people. However, no matter how much you cried after lost friends, the universe just brought more people to lose into your life.

Maybe that’s why Jongho’s disappearance bothered you so much. Losing another friend was expected but the way he had completely vanished was slowly breaking you apart. You couldn’t help but blame yourself. It had been completely justified to kick him out of your apartment that day he threw the plate on Yeosang’s face; you shouldn’t feel ashamed.

“Y/N? Are you okay?”

Yunho’s voice brought you back on Earth, saving you from your drowning thoughts.

You might have lost Jongho’s friendship but you gained Yunho’s. It was just the matter of time when you’d mess up that situation as well.

“I’m okay. I was just thinking what to talk about in this topic,” your smile was weak yet reassuring enough.

“If it helps you, I can go first,” Yunho suggested.

At your nod, Yunho began to talk about the person who meant the most to him. His eyes practically shined like he was passionate about the chance to finally tell you about the love of his life.

“There’s a woman who stole my heart a couple years ago. I haven’t been able to think about anyone else after she caught my attention.”

It was honestly adorable to hear Yunho ramble about the woman. A hint of jealousy gnawed at your insides; for someone to love you like Yunho loved the woman was a dream.

“The way she walked out of the police station, the way she talked to the other officers, scared and needing help... It made me realize the meaning of my life isn’t to protect all the people. It’s to protect her.”

Yunho was clearly devoted. His words were sweet at first. The way he talked about her was a clear indication of how much she had affected his life. But suddenly his words took a slightly darker turn.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe and happy in my arms. It doesn’t matter if I have to burn her house or the whole world as long as she runs to me for safety,” Yunho spoke, his voice loving, the complete opposite of his words.

“Wow, she’s one lucky girl,” you chuckled nervously.

Surely Yunho must have meant it as a joke. He was a man of justice, not an arsonist.

“She’s my lucky girl,” Yunho smiled softly at you, “So, who is the person you hold dear to your heart?”

You still hadn’t come up with a good answer. The only friends you had in that moment were Yeosang and Yunho, but you knew neither of them well enough. Jongho had grown quite close with you, at least you liked to think so, but he was gone now.

“I don’t really have people who are close to me,” you admitted reluctantly, feeling unsure if you should tell these kinds of things.

“Just say anyone.”

“Well, I think Yeosang is the closest to me right now.”

Yunho’s encouraging smile turned into a frown. It baffled you; there was always a chance that you could be the woman Yunho loved, but he had mentioned having met her a couple years ago already.

“Yeosang? Why him?”

“I think he’s kind to me, and we’ve hung out a lot.”

Your murmured explanation didn’t satisfy Yunho. It was obvious how hard he tried to control his facial expressions, to hide how upset he was.

“Haven’t I been kind to you?” Yunho inquired.

“Yes, you have but-”

“Did you change your wallpaper yet?”

“I-I forgot,” as soon as you answered, Yunho grabbed your purse and started going through the contents of it.

Your eyes widened as he took the matter of changing your wallpaper into his own hands. He was rummaging through your little bag, and you couldn’t let that happen. A woman’s purse was a private thing, especially when that woman was slightly paranoid at the excuse of valued safety.

“Hey! Give it back,” you reached for your purse.

Yunho didn’t care and kept taking things out of it, letting them fall to the floor. Some makeup, a hairbrush and wallet were already in everyone’s sight.

“Yunho, give Y/N her bag back, please,” Charlotte finally tried to stop the situation but her spineless words meant nothing to Yunho.

You tried desperately to gather your things before anything too personal would be revealed, but Yunho just kept throwing things out.

“What is this?” Wooyoung grabbed an object from the floor, inspecting it in his hand.

Your face heated up at the sight of Wooyoung holding something private. Gazing at him angrily from the floor, you were about to demand him to give it back.

“That’s a woman diaper!” Mingi exclaimed, shocked at the unbelievable, astonishing, mind-blowing sight of a menstrual pad.

You couldn’t believe this was happening. All your stuff on the floor for everyone to see and judge, and now Wooyoung and Mingi had humiliated you with their discovery.

“No, Mingi. That is called a menstrual pad,” Charlotte spoke softly like talking to a child.

You wished Jongho was there to knock some sense into everyone. Most likely, he wouldn’t have even done that, but you liked to believe he would have defended your honor. The honor that went down the drain like your appreciation and respect for Yunho.

San snatched the pad from Wooyoung’s hands, clearly frustrated. With no hesitation he walked to you and kneeled down on your level.

“Let me help you,” he said quietly and gave you the pad.

It was just a mere hygiene product, but to you, it felt like he was giving the prettiest flower bouquet ever. In your moment of helplessness, he had wanted to help you.

San started gathering the objects from the floor to their rightful place, your purse. His lips were pressed tightly together like he was feeling annoyed.

“You don’t have to help if you don’t want to,” you spoke quietly, feeling exhausted because of the emotional rollercoaster.

“I want to help,” he looked up a little to give you a gentle smile, “What kind of a person would I be if I didn’t?”

“Apparently the kind everyone else is.”

San chuckled at your bitter mumble. You could see he was holding back his own irritation to calm you down.

Soon, Yeosang joined in to help you and San. You were grateful for those two; the only people in the room you respected. Seonghwa had the potential to be one of those as well, but his friendship with Hongjoong made you mentally avoid him.

Once all your belongings were back in the purse, you turned to Yunho. It was hard to be angry at people whether you knew them well or not; if you knew someone well, you were afraid they’d leave you and if you didn’t know them well, you were afraid they’d be violent. That’s why expressing your feelings of hurt felt dangerous.

You snatched your phone away from Yunho. Surprisingly, the wallpaper hadn’t been changed.

“Why is the wallpaper still the same?” you were gritting your teeth as you spoke.

“I couldn’t unlock your phone,” Yunho’s expression turned guilty, “Look, I’m sorry-”

“Save it. I’m going home.”

You had gone through that terrible moment just for Yunho to not even change your wallpaper. Sure, you should have been glad he couldn’t unlock your phone, but it felt somehow so futile.

As you rid the bus home, you couldn’t help but think; the group therapy didn’t feel helpful or healing at all. You had found Yeosang and Jongho through it, but at what cost? One of the members was a stalker for God’s sake.

Speaking of which, you hadn’t noticed much signs of the stalker in the near days. Would it have been naive to think that fake dating Jongho could have scared him away? Probably yes.

You got off the bus and started making your way back to home. Usually, it was darker at that time of the day, but the seasons were changing. You wished you could change too. You wished you could put an end to your sickness and struggles, to live a normal life, so you wouldn’t have to deal with the sickos at the group therapy.

Maybe it was time to stop going to the therapy. You’d rather live without the social assistance of the government than step inside the nightmarish room of armchairs and supposedly therapeutic talk again.

As you arrived at your door, you reached into your purse like you did every day. A twinge of panic twitched inside your chest as you couldn’t find your keys. They were most likely just deeper inside the purse, and you’d have to look again.

But no matter how much you searched, the keys weren’t there in your purse, jingling like they always did. There was no sight of them even when you emptied the whole purse.

You were positive you, Yeosang, and San had picked up all the objects from the floor. All your other belongings were with you but the keys were gone. It would have been more pleasant if the damn pad had been left behind, but now you were denied the access to your own apartment.

It was possible that someone took your keys when they were still on the floor.

But now the most important thing was to find a place you could sleep at. You didn’t trust your neighbors and you couldn’t afford a hotel room. After some thinking you realized your only option was to beg Yeosang to let you sleep in his apartment. Such a splendid idea to have a sleepover with a man you met in a therapy group for mentally ill. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ <- Chapter 7. Chapter 9. -> Masterlist ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Taglist: @devilzliaison @lover-with-dolar-sign-is-a-loser @passerbyforfun @gigikubolong29 @peqchplvto

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supernovafics · 10 months ago

Text

series masterlist | last part — next part

pairing: modern!college!steve harrington x fem!reader, bestfriend!eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 5.3k words

warnings: explicit language, a bunch of other good things that i don’t wanna say because i don’t want to completely spoil everything<333

summary: an unexpected conversation between you and steve leads to a long overdue realization

quick a/n: a bit nervous to post this one lol but i hope yall enjoy🫶🏾

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | ❝𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕❞

Summer 2017

“I’m a little upset that I didn’t get the grand hometown tour.”

“You mean the tour of the old library that I spent probably too much time at back in high school, and the park that I also really liked back in high school, but it’s currently under construction?”

Eddie gave you an amused smile. “Yes, exactly that.”

“Next time,” You told him, completely joking with your words, but you wouldn’t have been surprised if he actually held you to them the next time he was here. But, you honestly didn’t think that there’d be another moment when he was in your hometown; this moment in itself felt almost like a fluke.

After a five week long road trip with Eddie, you still weren’t ready to be home— you dreaded it, actually— but things had started getting too expensive and Eddie’s van was in dire need of a break.

You did most of the driving to your hometown because you knew that Eddie would have to do all of the driving alone back to his own home. And then he stayed with you for the night at your dad’s house. You didn’t even have to do any sort of introduction between the two because your dad was off on a vacation with his new girlfriend.

Now it was the morning and you two lingered by Eddie’s van, prolonging the conversation because the next time you’d see each other would be a little over four weeks— when you moved into your apartment with Robin, Vickie, and Talia, and he moved in with two people that he found at the last second; luckily, your respective buildings weren’t far from each other, so it wouldn’t feel impossible to see each other.

You pulled Eddie in for a hug, a long one that felt so equivalent to a goodbye and it actually managed to sadden you a bit because of how good the last five weeks had been and it sucked that it was all over now.

When you pulled back, you gave him a smile. “See you in four weeks, Edward.”

He laughed a little. “See ya.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

Spring Semester 2018

Maybe things should’ve felt at least a little weird or awkward between you and Steve in this moment in the library— it had been a month since the last time you two talked— but it didn’t. At all.

It was all so surprisingly easy. The small talk wasn’t even unbearable; you liked hearing about the mundane things he’d been up to for the past month and you didn’t mind sharing your own stories about classes you’d come to hate and how you didn’t feel all too prepared for finals because you had more essays to do than actual tests. And then you two moved into random bits of nothing, asking the first thing you could think of or filling the silence with storytimes or quick anecdotes, and whispering the entire time so that you didn’t disturb everyone else in the library right then.

You two probably should’ve moved somewhere else, but it felt as if the entire moment would’ve been broken if you did so. Logical thinking would’ve sunk in on your side of things and you would’ve realized that all of this was a bad idea and you should’ve left, or perhaps never sat down across from him on this carpeted floor in the first place.

“Did you decide what you’re going to do with your summer of freedom?” You asked him instead of leaving or even thinking about doing so. You were mainly joking with your question and just trying to think of something to say, but still, you were a little curious.

“I think I’m gonna do the Europe thing. Go alone,” He told you. “It’s loosely planned right now, but I’ll fully figure it out after finals.”

“Ooh, that’s very Eat, Pray, Love of you,” You joked.

He laughed a bit. “Thanks, I think?”

“I’ve actually never seen that movie before, but from what I think I know of it, it felt fitting to mention it.”

“Do you know what you’re gonna do for the summer?”

“Nothing exciting, really,” You answered with a quick shrug. “I think I’m just gonna stay around here. Robin and Vickie are doing some summer classes, and even though I’m not taking any, staying in the apartment for the summer sounds much better than going home the entire time.”

Steve nodded. “With what you’ve said about your parents, that makes sense.”

“Exactly,” You nodded back. “So, if you get bored of Europe— which I highly doubt, but still— please feel free to come to any of our apartment movie nights and sleep on our couch at any point during the summer.”

You realized way too late what exactly your words implied— that you two were friends, that this moment in the library wasn’t and shouldn’t be a one-off thing. And your brain was quickly rushing you to fix what you said. “Or, I guess, that wouldn’t really make sense since we’re not friends or whatever…”

You could recognize that it was a pretty shitty attempt at backtracking, but all Steve needed to do was simply agree and everything would be fine; or, at least, what you’d convinced yourself was considered as “fine.”

“That ‘going our separate ways’ rule was so dumb,” Steve said instead of agreeing with your previous statement. “We should be friends.”

He was completely right, the rule was dumb. But still, even in this entirely comfortable moment, you knew that you couldn’t say what he wanted to hear.

“I’ve missed this,” He continued on before you could say anything in response. He lightly bumped his knee with yours. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” You blurted it out before you realized what you were even saying, and you didn’t know how true it was until those four simple words were out in the open and sitting in the quiet air between you and Steve.

They abruptly made you inwardly admit everything else that you’d been avoiding and refusing to accept— the almost too obvious reason why you couldn’t be friends with him and why you had refused to break the rule this entire past month.

You’d never be able to be just friends with him. You’d start feeling something more and head down an all too familiar path, another Eddie situation that you weren’t sure if you’d be able to take and not have it break you this time around. Falling for a friend who saw you as nothing more than solely as a friend already sucked once, and you couldn’t imagine letting history repeat itself.

That was why you couldn’t try to do it; you couldn’t try to be normal and keep things as they were between you and Steve. If you two hadn’t gone your “separate ways,” you were certain that you would’ve ended up liking him, inadvertently feeling more for him than what you wanted to.

However, you were realizing now that the joke was actually on you because it still happened anyway.

You liked him a lot. And maybe some part of you always did. But, you knew that you’d never be able to do anything about it.

You were right on one thing, though— this entire moment was a bad idea.

Before you could come up with some random excuse to leave, the sound of Steve’s phone vibrating next to him saved you instead. He grabbed it, looking down at whatever message he just got and then back at you.

“I gotta go. I’m late for this study group thing,” He said. “But, I'm not gonna be an idiot right now and once again say that we should go our separate ways. It’s set in stone now— we’re friends.”

“Okay,” You nodded, not meaning in the slightest.

“You should come over tomorrow. We can watch that one Lindsay Lohan movie that you like and I promise I won’t complain about it.”

“It’s called Freaky Friday. And yeah, okay, that sounds good.”

Right then it was easier to lie than to refuse his statement and make up a different lie about why you couldn’t hang out with him, why you couldn’t ever hang out with him.

Steve gave you one final smile before he stood up. You watched him head down the aisle and then turn the corner before you let yourself lean back against the bookshelf and shut your eyes with a sigh.

Now that you finally admitted to yourself how you felt for him, it was as if the dam broke and all you could think about was how real the entirety of the fake dating thing had been for you— during the power outage where you actually got to know him, during that night where you two spent Valentine’s together at that arcade and pizza place, during everything that happened in Mexico. It was suddenly so obvious, and you were also reminded of that moment during the delayed flight when the realization first hit you.

How different would things be if you had actually accepted it back then? You honestly couldn’t imagine.

Another long sigh fell from your lips as you pulled your legs out of the aisle and crossed them under you.

You really didn’t want to like Steve, and a part of you wanted to try and convince yourself that it wasn’t true; just like you’d done before. But, this time around was so much different. The feelings already felt so settled and certain; you couldn’t even push them away.

And that only made things feel worse because avoidance was your main coping mechanism. So if you couldn’t push away and forget your feelings for Steve, what the hell were you going to do instead?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

It was hours upon hours full of contradictory thoughts. One part of you was telling you to be honest and the other was saying the exact opposite, and at first, you had no idea which side to listen to. You wanted to take the easy way out, but there was something about that that didn't sit right with you. Still, though, you considered it.

More time slowly passed, your head in a constant push and pull, and then it was nearing midnight when you decided to call Steve. It was an impulsive decision that, once you were settled on it, surprisingly felt like the right one.

You sat up in your bed and grabbed your phone off of your nightstand. You could hear the faint sounds of Talia doing something in the kitchen through your shut door, but you knew that it wasn’t her that was keeping you awake since you got in bed twenty minutes ago. Instead, it was your scattered thoughts and confused mind, both of which somehow suddenly felt a thousand percent certain about one thing, which should’ve felt comforting but it actually felt like the opposite.

You pressed call on Steve’s contact name before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Hey,” His voice sounded sleepy when he answered after the third ring, which let you know that you’d woken him up. A part of you felt bad, and you wanted to hang up after saying the quickest “Sorry” to him, but then you remembered why you were calling.

“I can’t be friends with you,” You blurted it out, getting straight to the point because you couldn’t think of a different way to say it.

“Oh…” He sounded confused, and rightfully so, you could recognize that this was probably the weirdest wake-up call ever. “Oh, okay.”

You could’ve simply ended it there and let the phone call be done with, no further explanation or anything so that you could save yourself from potential embarrassment. However, the whole Eddie situation taught you to be honest about how you’re feeling, and in this moment you suddenly felt so settled on doing so.

“At least, I can't try to be your friend without telling you something first, I think,” You told him. “And I’m sorry, I know this probably sounds so random, but I can’t sleep because all I’ve been doing for the past few hours is thinking about this, so I think I just need to be honest right now.”

You paused for a second, taking the quickest breath before speaking. “When we started the fake dating thing, we were pretty much strangers, and as it continued I thought that what we ended up forming was solely just some sort of unexpected friendship. And then when we were ending things, I convinced myself that what we had was actually absolutely nothing and we were just two people helping each other out. But then today at the library I realized that it really wasn’t fake for me, and it wasn’t just a friendship either. It’s so much more than that for me. I like you, Steve.”

Out of everything you had just said, those last four words were definitely the hardest. It felt simultaneously good and bad. So honest that your initial instinct was telling you to take it back, but as the statement settled in the air, you felt entirely okay about it and it made it feel easier to continue talking.

“And I know that it's probably not the same for you because you don’t do relationships and that was the whole point of the fake dating thing for you. I know that. And that's why I refused to accept these feelings or even admit them to myself in the first place.” You let your head fall back against your pillow and you squeezed your eyes shut as you forced yourself to keep going. “So I know that you’re probably gonna say that you don’t feel the same way and that’s okay; or it’ll eventually be okay, I guess, because rejection does suck. But this whole Eddie thing made me realize that maybe I should just be honest about my feelings, so this is me doing that…” You trailed off and then softly said, “Okay, sorry, I’m done talking now.”

Steve was quiet for a bit— it was actually a lot more than just a bit. It was so long that it made you think that he hung up or the call somehow ended, but then he was saying something.

“You should come to Europe with me this summer.”

That was not at all the response you were expecting to hear at that moment, and you had no idea what that response meant. Was it just a nice way of rejecting you or did he maybe feel the same way?

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” He said and somehow you could almost hear him shaking his head at himself. “I’m not used to doing this anymore.”

There was something about the way he said his statement that made you think that he was rejecting you, or at least trying to. And because of that, you quickly tried to make everything fine and okay and normal. “It’s, um... It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. Things will be okay with us. We can still be, uh, friends or whatever.”

“No, no that’s not what I meant,” He told you, and you could feel your heart fill with something that resembled hope. “I do. I do feel the same way. None of it was fake for me either, and it didn’t take me that long after Mexico and the rest of spring break to finally realize that. The night we “broke up” was actually pretty hard, and it also felt kind of wrong, if that makes sense. I tried to forget about it, though, because of the Eddie part of all of this and what we both agreed on at the beginning of everything.”

“When I finally accepted it today, I tried to push it all away too,” You said. “It was really hard to do, though— literally impossible, actually. Hence why I woke you up and had to tell you all of this in the middle of the night.”

“I get it. I’m just way too likable.”

“Shut up,” You said, but you were smiling.

“It’s the same for you too, though. You’re also really likable. I like you a lot,” Steve told you, and his words sounded so certain and honest that it made your heart do a weird fluttery thing that also wiped your brain of the ability to form any sort of coherent sentence. He then let out the quickest breath of a laugh. “It feels so weird doing this over the phone.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you and your next words came out with no hesitation. “You should come over.”

He was quiet just for a second before he said, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You answered, voice just as soft and quiet as his.

“Okay,” He said, and you could practically hear him nodding.

“Okay, cool,” You responded, trying to be normal and chill about everything, even though your heart felt as if it was about to burst out of your chest in nervous but excited anticipation of seeing him again and talking about everything in person. “See you soon then.”

When the call ended, you simply didn’t do anything for a moment. The same happy smile was on your face and you couldn’t seem to wipe it away, and you honestly didn’t even want to.

And then you were abruptly thinking about what you were wearing and wondering if it was okay. But, was there even any point in changing out of your slightly wrinkled t-shirt and pajama shorts?

You weren’t entirely sure, but you still got up from your bed and turned on your light, and then headed toward your closet.

You were halfheartedly picking through your clothes and making mental comments about everything— a dress felt like overkill and putting on jeans would be too annoying— when something hit you on the head and made you yelp. You looked down and saw that it was Hartford; he had previously been sitting on the shelf above your clothes. You picked him up and placed him back on your desk— his rightful place, you decided.

You also decided that what you were wearing was fine. It obviously made sense for the middle of the night and you’d only feel severely underdressed if Steve showed up wearing a suit, which sounded completely ridiculous.

The abrupt sound of something crashing in the kitchen pulled you out of your head and you left your room to make sure Talia was fine. You didn’t immediately see her when you looked over at the kitchen, but when you said, “Everything okay?” her head popped up from behind the counter.

“Yeah, I’m good. Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?” She asked and then sighed. “The mixer was hidden behind a thousand other things, so when I pulled it out, some pans fell.”

You could hear her fixing the pans and then she stood up.

“No, I was already awake,” You answered as you walked toward her. It was way too hard to not let yourself smile as you said your next words. “Steve’s, um, Steve’s coming over.”

She stopped in the middle of looking for something in the fridge and instead turned to you, the happiest smile on her face. “Oh my god, finally! I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since you got back from that date with Adam. I could just tell there was something so different about you and Steve.”

You shook your head as you laughed a bit. “You couldn’t have known about how I felt about Steve then. I barely knew.”

“Of course, I knew. I’m a Psych major for a reason,” She told you, which only made you laugh again. “But, I obviously wasn’t gonna tell you. You had to get there on your own. I’m so glad it didn’t take months, though, and I actually get to see this happen before I graduate and leave.”

You playfully rolled your eyes at her and then shifted the subject. “What are you making?”

“I’m kinda still deciding. It’ll either be a two-layered cake, cupcakes, or this tart recipe that I just saw,” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to do anything to take my mind off this one final that I’ve been studying for all day.”

That made sense to you. Last semester during the week leading up to finals, she made a fresh batch of cookies every night.

“Maybe I’ll do a cake,” She said, a small teasing smile on her face. “A celebratory one for you and Steve. I’ll frost it white and write ‘Congrats, Lovebirds’ on it in red. Shit, I hope there’s still food coloring left.”

You immediately shook your head. “Please don’t do that. Before when things were fake, you guys couldn’t scare him off, now it definitely could happen.”

“Fine, I’ll just make a completely normal white cake that has absolutely nothing to do with you and Steve. But, deep down, both you and I know the truth.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Thank you.”

She finished grabbing the eggs from the fridge and you headed to the couch, knowing that she liked working alone in the kitchen. A part of you wanted to turn on the TV, but you weren’t in the mood to put on a movie or anything.

You heard Talia hum to herself as she started measuring flour and sugar and then cracking eggs.

It was calming to see her completely in her element with her thoughts focused solely on one thing. Your thoughts didn’t have something specific to focus on, so they instead focused on Steve. Him and you and you two together. Well, together, but not really because nothing was settled yet. So, right now, in this moment, you two were just friends. Or was that not even an accurate description either?

“Get out of your head.”

You looked over at Talia, wondering how long she’d been watching you and seeing you starting to inwardly spiral. “How could you tell?”

“Once again, Psych major for a reason,” She said, giving you a small smile. “Stop thinking so hard about everything right now. It’s all gonna be great when he gets here. Hey, just tell me a story. A random one. First thing that comes to you.”

You thought for a second and then went with the first thing that came to your mind just like Talia said; a quick story about a summer camp that you went to when you were ten. It was almost too easy to think of things to talk about involving the month-long sleep away camps or short stints at super niche-specific camps that your parents found for you.

The knock on the door came when you were in the middle of telling Talia about a different summer, a theater camp you were forced to go to for two weeks when you were twelve.

You quickly got to the end of the story as you walked over to the door. “Long story short, the whole show was canceled due to the pregnancy rumor.”

Talia shook her head in disbelief. “No way.”

“Yeah, it was insane. Spoiler alert, though, she wasn’t pregnant. Thank god. But, that was when I learned how ruthless theater kids are.”

You pulled the door open after letting out a soft laugh at Talia sighing and saying, “Children are evil.”

You wanted to be normal about seeing Steve standing in front of you right then— really, you did— but it was too hard to. He was sporting messy bedhead, sweatpants, and a t-shirt that matched yours with how wrinkled it was. It looked as if he had rushed to get here, which was actually true given the fact that he managed to turn a typical thirty-minute drive into twenty minutes.

“Hi,” You said, a fresh wave of giddiness hitting you immediately and it was hard to contain the smile tugging at your lips.

He didn’t hesitate to match it. “Hey.”

You both simply smiled at each other like idiots for a few moments. Talia was right.

The sound of the oven beeping followed by Talia saying, “How long it takes for the oven to preheat is the one thing that I’m really not gonna miss about this place,” seemed to pull you both out of your lovestruck trance.

“Hi, sorry, come in,” You said to Steve, pushing the door open further so that he could step inside and then you closed it behind him. “Talia’s baking a cake.”

“A completely normal cake,” She told him and you immediately gave her a look. “Anyway, nice to see you again, Steven.”

“You, too,” He said. “What makes it normal?”

“Nothing. Please ignore what she just said,” You told him, and then didn’t think too much as you grabbed his hand and led him toward your room. You didn’t realize what you’d done until your door was shut behind you both and your hand was still holding his— it didn’t feel entirely wrong, though.

You noticed him look at your desk. “You still have Hartford.”

You let go of his hand as you went over to grab the small bear. “Of course, I do. I hope you still have Bowie.”

“Of course,” He said, smiling and matching your certain tone.

“Thinking about it now, I feel like that whole Valentine’s night should’ve sealed the deal for me. It was literally a date,” You said, letting out a laugh as you placed Hartford back down on your desk.

Thinking back to Valentine’s Day also made you abruptly remember that that was also the night he told you about him not wanting anything serious and finally explaining the “why” behind it too. And it was then that you realized that just because he had feelings for you didn’t necessarily mean that his mindset on relationships had changed too.

You were rushing to continue and verbalize that before Steve could say anything. “And I completely get it if all of this doesn’t really change anything. Because none of this means that how you view love and relationships has changed. Not saying that you love me or anything but–”

He cut off your rambling with a head shake. “Hey, no, this is so different. I want everything with you.” It was hard not to become shy under his gaze, especially as he said those words, but you still refused to look away from him as he kept talking.

“You kind of changed it all for me. I was scared of it before, I think— of doing anything serious and letting anyone in because I just assumed that I’d end up getting heartbroken again. But, with you, it never really felt like that; scary or anything. I think that when we were stuck at my place during the power outage and just talking, deep down I knew that things with you were gonna be different or already were; it didn’t feel weird or scary getting deep with you or letting you in. Same thing with that night in Mexico when we were eating cereal and talking about all of that serious stuff. It took a while for me to actually admit what all of those things meant, though.”

Hearing him say that made you think about when he proposed the fake dating thing, when he said that guys are dumb and it takes them a while to realize things. Thinking about those words now made you smile.

“Guys are stupid,” You said. “You’re the one that told me that.”

Steve nodded, laughing a little. “We are. That’s still very true.”

“I was also stupid. I avoided everything for a long time too.”

“Glad to know we’re both idiots then,” He said, which made you smile wider.

For a second, nothing else was said; it honestly felt as if nothing else really needed to be said right then. You weren’t sure if it was you or him that closed most of the distance between you two— perhaps it was both of you. Either way, a silent agreement to push things further was made as your arms came up to loosely circle his neck and his hands found your waist.

It was you who didn’t waste a second to turn that final bit of space between you into nothing. You leaned in slowly, though, nose brushing against his before softly finding his lips.

It was simply just a peck at first, a chaste kiss just to test the waters and define this moment as different from the other few times that this had happened. You both knew that this was entirely different. It wasn’t good but confusing like during the blind date, and it wasn’t for show like the times in Mexico. This first kiss was right, and as simple and brief as it was, it felt damn near perfect.

When you pulled away after just a second, Steve didn’t hesitate to lean right back in, quickly letting his mouth find yours again. One of his hands left your waist and came up to cup your cheek instead. That soft touch grounded you, it kept you steady and it also did something to your heart; made it start thumping wildly in your chest.

There was no part of you that wanted this moment to end, you wanted to live in it for as long as you could and memorize every single part of it. The way your fingers so easily found home in the hair at the nape of his neck. His warm hand on your waist that you could practically feel through your t-shirt. How it was almost like a dance happening as Steve guided you back against your shut door, pressing you against it, and you used that as the opportunity to pull him impossibly closer to you.

It didn’t take long for you two to end up in your bed; you quickly became too tired of standing and the doorknob poking into your side became too uncomfortable.

Your legs were on either side of his lap and he was leaning back against the headboard, pulling you toward him. It felt like you were two teenagers who had just discovered what making out was. And it also felt as if you both were in agreement about feeling like you two had wasted so much time not kissing over the last month of not talking to each other and since you two met that you were trying to make up for all of that lost time.

When you pulled away to catch your breath, Steve’s lips found your neck, and your eyes immediately slipped shut.

“I meant what I said before,” He mumbled against your skin, but you heard him clearly.

Your eyes were still contentedly closed as you asked, “Meant what?”

“That you should come to Europe with me this summer.”

You let out a soft laugh that quickly turned into a sigh of contentment when his lips found a particularly sensitive part of your neck. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely serious,” Steve said in between kisses.

You pulled back then to look at him— it was hard to do, you really didn’t want to pull away, but reluctantly you did. You wanted to gauge how serious he was actually being right then, and you could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t joking.

His hands found yours and intertwined them. “Say yes.”

How happy he sounded rubbed off on you and you had to bite your lip to suppress your growing smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“That sounds like a yes to me,” He said, still smiling as he leaned in to kiss you.

You pulled away after the briefest second. “I’m serious.” You weren’t at all. “I gotta make a pro and con list to make sure this is the right decision.”

“Okay, I’m already thinking of a bunch of pros to add to the list,” Steve told you and then gave you a playful smile. “I can’t think of any cons, though, so...” He finished off with a shrug that made you laugh.

Weirdly enough, no cons were coming to your mind right then either.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

next part!

taglist (lmk if you want to be added or taken off<333); @eddiernunson , @loulouloueh , @the-aster , @blckburd , @totally-bogus-timelady , @yujyujj , @irhdifartzamfyaa , @mochminnie , @munsonssweets , @blckbrrybasket , @xprloki , @definitionwanderlust , @dwcode , @sun-fiower-seed , @keerysfolklore , @damon-loves-pie , @lodeddiperrodrick , @bisexual-and-intellectual , @munsonburn3r , @negomi123 , @khena , @facexthexsunshine , @seatbacksandtraytables , @suckerfordylansstuff , @lilacccs , @thehairington86 , @welcometohellsock

(if your user is crossed out it means i can’t tag you</3)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x you #eddie munson x reader #bestfriend!eddie munson #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington series #stranger things fluff #stranger things imagine

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wannabedragon-yep-lumenemporium · 1 month ago

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Cryo Mort a Rickver analysis!!

Okay my first post-episode reaction was:

Because I'm a big baby with an acoustic brain and my expectations were too defined in a precise shape to feel fulfilled by something actually wrote by different ppl then myself, so I just re-watched the episode/ re elaborated it, and... no, I actually liked it, a lot, and it wasn't even that far from what I expected...💀so... idk, it's 5 am 💀 I think the lesson here it's that we never should take things for granite 🗿(this emoji is faulty btw, it doesn't have reversed butt)

Aaaaanyway let's go as usual with:

my take in general

episode's themes I noticed

sus/interesting details

_________My take (I'm part of the R&M cult, so, impartiality)________

First of all, I laughed sooo hard for the entire episode, it was silly silly for real.

Visually, it was absolutely S T U N N I N G.

You can definitely see that some scenes have more CGI in them (look at these rolling cubes, look how smoothly they roll, just ✋😞👌)

Also, the prospective now shifts more often, offering different sides of the character design, especially with Morty.

Speaking of which, Morty character development was kinda cool and unexpected: he seems more himself now, and he truly showed some new grit this episode:

"I draw the line at..." it's not something that I would ever expected to hear from our Morty

I absolutely love how much of a natural leader every version of Morty actually is thanks to his critical sense.

This time we see him becoming an anti-capitalist through and through, growing to hate a system of disparities and abuse, eventually understanding that he couldn't save people from themselves, but only blow up the system from its roots, hoping that the survivors would chose wisely what to do with their new lives.

the space fight scene it's an interesting parallelism to the Sun King episode, where people fall completely prey of their paranoia and nonsensical drives, starting to kill each other without a real reason.

Also, if this episode's Morty's pseudo president arc wasn't enough, there's another Citadel parallelism here: no matter how you chose to break the system, those who refuses to change will eventually die in any case, you cannot save them.

Because the problem with revolutions is that they are nothing more than mob justice: there is no time to change, to develop a widespread, decent level of mental hygiene, to form and consolidate new ideas, to shifts people opinions towards something more constructive, there is no room for actually planning a new way to live, there is just violence. As history shown us with French Revolution, if people aren't ready for a consistent change, once a status quo is deposed, another ruling class of abusers will promptly rise at expense of the mob.

These themes are deep considerations about our current world wide situation, and also speaks volumes about E.Morty choices. I am more and more convinced that he initially planned to actually change the Citadel, before realizing it was impossible to save people from themselves, just like Morty is slowly realizing, season after season, that sometimes be kind and empathetic isn't enough for those who never learned how to love, how to be happy along with other people.

"Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter when the promise of a brave new world unfurled beneath a clear blue sky?"

The majority of people from the anti-social society we have, knows perfectly how to hate and destroy, but they don't know how to build and maintain. "Starting anew" to them means doing it at expense of others, to grab everything they can, while they can, in the attempt to fill their inner void, to shuts their fears, to feel in control of the entire world.

The Citadel story line parallelisms continue through seasons, as a cautionary tale, and even after the Citadel got destroyed, some of the remaining survivors tried to repeat the cycle again, killing each others out of greed.

We have the ex-mutated Mortys that Rick saved, and the portal-travellers reset survivors. Think abt it: in both cases they had an imaginable luck to survive, (surviving to the Citadel collapse/portal mutations and to the forced teleportation onto the citadel wreckage) they had the incredible chance to start anew: and what do they do? The ex- mutated Mortys start to cannibalize other Mortys, eventually auto killing each others, and the seconds ultimately die because of greed (so basically the same, but metaphorically).

Mortys who actually chose to start a new life, are able to do that after a long time spent building and maturing, processing what they experienced, slowly leaving the citadel life style behind, finally ending the death cycle: they stop looking for revenge, they stop looking for goals that belonged to their past, they stop looking for friendships forced by common misery, they leave all behind and start anew, alone but not lonely, maybe for the first time in their entire life.

Maybe this time Morty really is closer to understand Evil morty reasons.

Totally E.Morty stance, look at those fists, lol 💀

"Cry me a river" takes an interesting meaning under the post-episode light, bcs it's linked to several key moments of the episode: Jimmy's apologies seems to be pretty empty, as much as his parents' apologies; the priest unsaying his lack of faith just bcs he's facing death, even the Takeys and the Makeys are just kept in line by the chips, not by felt empathy or ideals of brotherhood and equality: everyone here is "crying a river", in a bad way, little or nothing will actually change after these events. Instead of accepting and justifying Rick's constant betrayals as he did in s 5, this time, Morty reacts to Rick's abuse: when Rick abandons him in huge troubles just bcs of one of his own whims about randoms drugs/materials, Morty beats the sh*t out of him 💀 he doesn't hesitate to go against Rick's will and he even exposes him at some risk in order to resolve the issues that Rick himself caused; so yeah, it's the same theme from "Borrowed Time", but with a big twist, since this time Morty behaves as someone who finally got the lyrics 💀 Rick seems to have Morty's same bitter feelings, but they're about his family of origin instead. For the first time we really see how much of an open wound this still is to him, after all this time... He doesn't feel like they were his real family at all, he feels betrayed and abandoned from the people who were supposed to care about him, those people who "were the sun" to him... I'mma cry

We finally start to dig into Rick's childhood, which, realistically speaking, is what made Rick as he is. Personality disorders such as narcissism, develops during childhood, the period when we are most vulnerable and we still lack of all those tools that allow us to process trauma in a healthy way; that's why you cannot develop narcissim or bpd just like that during your thirties, for example, and that's why it's so hard to treat personality disorders, because your brain literally formed itself around the maladaptive structure that allowed you to survive. So, Rick digging into his unresolved childhood trauma? yeah, I think we 're gonna eventually see that.

This Morty still doesn't understand what it means to realize that your family will never actually be able to love you as they should: it's not about some younger sibling or relative, it's about your parents, your adult relatives, those who were supposed to protect you, to guide you, to love you no matter what, those "you cannot chose". Maybe if Morty stayed with his Prime family, one day he would have finally get it. Maybe this version of Morty will have a family that at least tries their best. But surely this Rick didn't have the privilege of a loving family.

Rick is the usual piece of crap, but he at least is cognitively learning to show some basic respect for Morty. He ask for Morty's opinion and consent before jumping straight into adventure, he accept Morty's conditions. Even if he's still a piece of crap...

...is a more decent piece of crap.

I think a message that flew a little bit under the radar with Rick loving so much his "new parents", is: everyone looks good, when you don't know what happens daily, behind closed doors. Because what really prevents toxic people to truly build and enjoy relationships is a chronic lack of maintenance, not being consistent in who you are, not being consistent in what you love, with who you love... love it's not a great show every once in a while. Love is every day, even in the bad days, even behind closed doors: it means to recognize the same person you love even when things go off the rails, trusting them because you know them, not the mask they wear. Losing yourself in narcissism is the great tragedy of this personality disorder, endlessly drowning into forever-shifting, empty waters, dragging others down with you. We can say that ppl with narcissism are pieces of sh*t and whatever, because they really tear apart other people's lives, but this doesn't make narcissism less of a curse for narcissists themselves. In other words, if u think your family sucks but those of your friends do not, think twice, they probably suck too 👍

The white privilege: the ep. gives a little bit cheesy depiction of the rich ruling class tbh, because you can be privileged and naive as much as u want, but if your empathy works, one day you wake up and do something with the power you have, otherwise you're just an accomplice. The same rich-privileged-ppl thing, ignoring the consequences of their lifestyle, fits perfectly as an example of the narcissistic role of enablers: maybe for your own good, out of survival instinct or just out of blissful ignorance, you protect the abuser and consistently allow them to perpetuate more abuse, just by doing nothing and passively accepting what they tell you. Jimmy is the perfect example of what a second generation of privileged, blissfully ignorant people is: he completely lacks of contact with reality, he did a mess just for fun, he doesn't understand that what he did killed hundreds of his people, his friend and almost himself. And acts like that not because he lived a life without consequences, but bcs he lived a life without values. The change of heart of Jimmy's parents in fact, it's the show pointing out that the real problem wasn't Jimmy but the lack of guidance from his parents, that only now are realizing how little time they have to become good parents. It doesn't takes much time for them to be back to normal though. I mean, her name is Karen.... I love how Morty totally sees them for what they are and shuts the capsule when he gets so fed up with them💀

electro shocking ppl whenever they're assholes seems to work good enough lol💀

_________________Ep. Main themes in a nutshell__________________

Citadel parallels, Citadel parallels everywhere! also Morty/ E.Morty parallels everywhere!

Bad parenting

People not willing to change cannot be saved and they are quite dangerous too

Rick is cute in baby outfit 💀

__________________Sus stuff/interesting details___________________

"Ball is life!" and other differences between pilot and actual episode: that's sooo sus bcs... when the early stage version of this episode came out on yt, a lot of ppl said in the comments that the line "Ball is life" was totally out of character, and they were right, except... there is a Morty who's actually great at basketball and actually loves it: it's Comics' Morty... aand u know what I think about him 👀 Even some parts of the ep. dialogues where different, especially on Rick's part, so I wonder: was it just a draft revision or Rick already had this adventure with another Morty, just like he did with Snowball arc and other adventures? And did the first adventure resulted in Rick giving the cryo people the first chips and telling they would have died if they removed them...? (basically like he did in Ragnarick?) Or maybe writers just like to mess with us 💀

The Makeys has an implanted chip just as the Mortys from the Citadel used to have (another ref. to the Citadel's dynamics)

....Any idea of what New Lizzy entire thing meant? bcs I don't...

Thank you for reading!

#long post #narcissistic abuse #rick and morty analysis #cryo mort a rickver #rick and morty season 8 #rick and morty spoilers #rick and morty fandom #rick and morty #rick and morty s8 #rnm spoilers #rick and morty season eight #rick sanchez #morty smith #rick and morty fanfiction #rick and morty fanart

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sxorpiomooon · 1 year ago

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SATURN RETROGRADE FOR THE SIGNS

all you have to do is check your rising sign, happy saturn retrograde!!

aries - any decision that you make regarding your career will reverse, don't believe in any promises that will be made to you by anyone especially in your social circle or by your elder sibling, there will be too much promised but no action will be made, any promise made social circle not good elder sibling.

Taurus- might earn alot of money but won't be able to save any, there might be pressure in job, changes regarding job, offer from previous jobs, unorganised with work due to confusion

Gemini- You will have some issue in bringing up or asking for things to your father especially for money, relationship with your teachers or gurus will get harsh, you might have to deal with construction or renovation of some sort and also will have to make some sort of donation while being stingy of your money, some responsibility regarding your mother will also be fulfilled

Cancer- there will be unexpected expenses, major duty that you will have to perform or do towards your family, mother health might get a bit bad, you will have old people reaching out to you.

Leo- alot of your hidden enemies might br bought to light, you will have people interfering with your business, fights with people and not being able to find a ground for it.

Virgo- huge focus on children and romantic relationships, might not be able to be focused especially on studies or might not get alone time to focus on your own self there might be some issue with education due to this also not being able to meditate

Libra - there might be some sort of break or disturbance in education due to your home life or house, people who live away from their house might have to go back, you might start being affected by your mother's opinion alot, good time for selling property if there have been some disputes earlier, might get back into meditation.

Scorpio- good time for selling property, a chance to go to foreign lands if you've been trying for some time now, disturbance in life due to younger sibling or neighbours

Saggitarius - younger siblings might come back if they are away, money themes with siblings, might have to speak alot in your work which might cause alot fear and anxiousness, alot of efforts will be put in family and finances, useless spending

Capricorn - spending money on yourself, finally start doing things for yourself, wanting everyone's focus to be on you, alot of offers coming

Aquarius- might get lazy or lethargic, overly interested in politics, anxiety problems due to feeling inferior to other people and disturb of sleep due to too much focus on inner fear regarding profession, visa issues clear and money will be invested

Pisces- there will be issue rest and sleep, lot of responsibility will be given to you our of nowhere, some issues regarding older sibling, good long term investment might be good

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arasinchahonghong · 2 months ago

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Pretty bloody face || X.Mh

Pairings: X.Mh x reader

This content contains, mentions of blood, murder.

You look pretty when you have blood all over your face.

- - -

The words, whispered like a secret, had been meant to haunt her, to flay her conscience. Instead, they’d become an anthem. Cho Y/N, Chairwoman of the formidable Cho Law Firm, straightened her already immaculate suit. The sterile white of the interrogation room seemed to hum with unspoken accusations, but her gaze, sharp and unwavering, met the detective's. Beside her, The8, calm and unnervingly composed, sat with an air of detached elegance, his expensive suit pristine, his expression unreadable.

He was a paradox, The8. A scion of old money, with an empire built on shadows and whispers, yet possessing an artistic soul that yearned for beauty, even in its most grotesque forms. He’d seen the blood that night, had even helped clean it, and had simply tilted his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips as he’d uttered those chilling words.

"We understand you were both present at Mr. Lee's residence on the night of the murder," Detective Kim stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Y/N’s mind flashed back. The tremor in her hands as she’d held the ornate letter opener, the sickening thud as it had connected, the sudden, gushing crimson. Mr. Lee, the man who had driven drunk, who had plowed into her small family car, who had stolen her child's future, her child's breath, her child’s laugh. He had walked free, the law, her own domain, failing her.

"We were," The8’s voice was smooth, a low murmur that filled the room. "We arrived shortly after the incident. A dreadful scene, truly."

"The incident being Mr. Lee's death?" Detective Kim pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Precisely," The8 replied, unperturbed. "We found him... indisposed. A tragic accident, it seemed."

Y/N felt a flicker of surprise. He was deviating from their carefully constructed narrative, the one where they were simply wealthy patrons who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then, The8 always danced on the edge of chaos, finding beauty in the precarious balance.

"An accident with a knife wound to the chest?" the detective countered, a hint of sarcasm lacing his tone.

"Life is full of unexpected turns, Detective," Y/N interjected, her voice steady, each word a precisely placed stone. "Perhaps he fell. Perhaps he was gardening indoors. We can only report what we observed."

A slow, cold smile spread across The8’s face. "Indeed. Though, I must admit, Y/N, you looked particularly striking that evening. The deep red of the blood… it truly complimented your eyes."

Detective Kim's jaw tightened. Y/N felt a shiver, not of fear, but of a strange, perverse thrill. He was taunting the detective, pushing the boundaries, and in doing so, he was solidifying their shared secret, their shared transgression.

"Mr. Xu," the detective said, addressing The8, "your family has a history of... protecting their interests, shall we say. And Ms. Cho, your firm is known for its impenetrable defenses."

"We believe in justice, Detective," Y/N stated, her voice resonating with a conviction that was both genuine and utterly chilling. "Sometimes, the legal system requires… a certain level of persuasion."

The hours stretched, filled with leading questions, veiled threats, and their unwavering denials. They had prepared for this, meticulously. The alibis were airtight, the evidence they’d left behind – or rather, the lack thereof – was impeccable. The8’s influence had reached far and wide, ensuring that witnesses were either nonexistent or conveniently forgetful. Y/N’s legal brilliance had crafted a narrative so intricate, so plausible, that it defied deconstruction.

Finally, with a sigh of frustration, Detective Kim leaned back. "We have no direct evidence linking either of you to Mr. Lee's death. However, this investigation is far from over."

"Of course," Y/N said, a polite, almost pitying smile gracing her lips. "We understand. We are, after all, pillars of the community. We'd be happy to assist in any way we can."

As they walked out of the police station, the crisp night air felt cleansing. The city lights glittered, a million tiny promises of anonymity. The8 turned to her, his gaze intense in the dim light.

"You really did look beautiful, Y/N," he repeated, his voice softer now, almost tender. "Like a masterpiece, painted in shades of defiance and grief."

Y/N looked at him, truly looked at him. He saw her, not just the formidable lawyer, not just the grieving mother, but the woman who had dared to take back what was stolen, who had found a brutal kind of peace in vengeance. He didn't judge her. He understood. And in his eyes, she saw a reflection of herself, equally untamed, equally stained.

"And you, Mr. Xu," she replied, a genuine smile, rare and fragile, appearing on her face. "You make an excellent accomplice."

He laughed, a rich, melodic sound that echoed in the quiet street. "Perhaps we should make this a regular occurrence. You know, for old times' sake."

She knew he wasn't serious, not entirely. But the underlying current of their unspoken agreement, their shared dark secret, hummed between them. They had crossed a line, together, and in doing so, they had forged a bond stronger than any legal contract, more potent than any societal norm.

The subsequent weeks were a delicate dance. The police continued their inquiries, but without tangible evidence, their efforts waned. The press, initially voracious, moved on to new scandals. Cho Law Firm thrived, its reputation for ruthlessness and success only cemented. The8's businesses continued to flourish, his influence expanding like a silent tide.

One evening, weeks later, Y/N found herself at an exclusive art exhibition, hosted, predictably, by The8. The gallery was filled with abstract pieces, vibrant colors bleeding into dark hues, unsettling yet captivating. He approached her, a glass of champagne in hand, his eyes sparkling with a familiar mischief.

"There's a new piece I'm acquiring," he said, gesturing to a large canvas shrouded in a velvet cloth. "I think you'll appreciate it."

He pulled back the cloth. It was a painting of a woman, her face obscured by shadow, but her posture was one of fierce determination. And splashed across the canvas, in striking, almost iridescent strokes, was a deep, rich red. Not just a color, but a presence, a statement.

Y/N felt a jolt. It wasn't literal, not a depiction of that night, but it evoked the same raw power, the same unapologetic embrace of darkness.

"It's called 'Retribution'," The8 said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "The artist captured the essence of… a certain kind of beauty. A beautiful act, even."

Her gaze met his, and in that shared glance, a silent understanding passed between them. They were beyond the law, beyond morality, bound by a secret that had stained their hands but liberated their souls. The blood, her child's blood, had been avenged. And in the process, she had found an unexpected ally, a kindred spirit who saw beauty where others saw only horror.

"It truly is beautiful," Y/N said, her voice barely audible, a testament to the quiet revolution that had occurred within her. And as she looked at the painting, then at The8, she knew. She wasn't just the Chairwoman of Cho Law Firm anymore. She was something more, something darker, something infinitely more dangerous. And she wouldn't have it any other way.Getting away with murder, Y/N quickly realized, wasn't the end of the story; it was merely the beginning of a different one. The thrill of retribution had faded, replaced by a subtle, persistent hum beneath the surface of her life. It wasn't guilt, not precisely. Guilt implied regret, and she felt none for Mr. Lee. It was more like a phantom limb, a constant awareness of the line she had crossed, a silent partner in every decision she made.

The Cho Law Firm, already a titan, seemed to take on a new, sharper edge under her leadership. Her cases, once about justice, now felt like intricate chess games where the rules were merely suggestions. She could anticipate every legal maneuver, every ethical tightrope, because she had, in the most profound way, stepped outside of them. Her legal mind, already formidable, had been honed into a weapon.

The8, on the other hand, seemed to revel in their shared secret. He’d send her obscure art pieces, sometimes with a splash of deep red, other times with titles that hinted at hidden depths and dangerous truths. Their encounters became more frequent, shifting from formal business meetings to late-night discussions over expensive wine in his minimalist penthouse, or hushed conversations in dimly lit galleries.

He’d talk about the delicate balance of power, the beautiful cruelty of the world, and how some individuals were simply meant to operate outside the confines of conventional morality. He understood her in a way no one else ever could, a silent acknowledgment of the monster they both nurtured.

"You're becoming even more formidable, Y/N," he’d observed one evening, his eyes tracing the subtle lines of fatigue around her eyes. "The weight of… experience… suits you."

"And you, The8," she’d replied, "are becoming even more enigmatic. The architect of shadows."

Unforeseen Consequences

Their victory, however, wasn't entirely without consequence. Detective Kim, though unable to press charges, remained a persistent shadow. He’d occasionally appear at public events Y/N attended, his gaze unwavering, a silent promise that he hadn’t forgotten. It was a subtle pressure, a reminder that their carefully constructed world existed on the edge of exposure.

Then there was Mr. Lee’s family. They had grieved publicly, their accusations against an unknown assailant growing louder, more desperate. Y/N would see their faces on the news, their pain a stark contrast to her calculated calm. A part of her, the old Y/N, felt a flicker of something akin to pity. But the new Y/N, forged in the crucible of loss and vengeance, simply acknowledged it as collateral damage.

One afternoon, a discreet envelope arrived at the law firm. Inside was a single, anonymous photograph: a blurred image of Y/N and The8 entering Mr. Lee's property on the night of the murder. It was grainy, barely discernible, but undeniably them. And beneath it, a single, chilling phrase: You look pretty when you have blood all over your face.

Y/N felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Someone else knew. Someone had seen. This wasn't Detective Kim's doing; this was a new player, an unknown variable.

She immediately called The8. His voice, usually so calm, held a rare note of alarm. "I'll handle it," he said, his tone grim. "Find out who sent it. We need to eliminate this threat, swiftly and permanently."

The New Game

The game had changed. It was no longer about escaping justice; it was about protecting their secret from an unseen adversary. The threat was more insidious now, a viper lurking in the shadows, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Y/N activated her firm’s vast network, discreetly digging for any information on who might have been at Mr. Lee’s property that night, anyone with a grudge, anyone with a motive to expose them. The8, in his own way, leveraged his shadowy connections, his intelligence network far more extensive and less bound by legalities.

Their hunt for the blackmailer was a brutal, meticulous process. Every lead, every whisper, was pursued with the same ruthless efficiency they had applied to Mr. Lee. The stakes were higher now. Their lives, their empires, rested on the absolute suppression of this truth.

As they worked, shoulder to shoulder once again, their bond deepened. It wasn't just a shared secret anymore; it was a shared burden, a shared hunt. The thrill of the chase, the danger, became an almost intoxicating high. They were two wolves, prowling the urban jungle, protecting their den.

One rainy evening, Y/N sat across from The8 in his penthouse, a map of the city spread between them, marked with red circles and black crosses. The tension was palpable, yet strangely exhilarating.

"We're close," The8 said, his finger hovering over a specific address. "This individual… they have a history of exploiting vulnerabilities. A professional blackmailer, it seems. And they're connected to… a certain journalist who’s been very interested in the Lee case."

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. "A journalist looking for a scoop, or someone with a deeper motive?"

The8 smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Perhaps both. But motives don't matter as much as actions, do they, Y/N? We just need to ensure their story never sees the light of day."

The rain outside intensified, mirroring the storm brewing within them. They had escaped the law, but now they faced a different kind of justice, one they would administer themselves. And as Y/N looked at The8, she knew, with a chilling certainty, that they were more than just a lawyer and a rich man. They were two architects of their own dark destiny, forever bound by the blood on their hands and the beautiful, dangerous secret they guarded.

The map on the table was more than just a street grid; it was a battleground. The blackmailer's address, a nondescript apartment building in a bustling part of the city, was marked with a decisive 'X'. The journalist, Sarah Chen, whose name had been linked to the blackmailer, had her office circled, a secondary target.

"We need to approach this with surgical precision," Y/N stated, her voice calm, every word weighted with intent. "No loose ends. No more lingering doubts."

The8 nodded, his gaze fixed on the map. "Sarah Chen is the conduit. The blackmailer is the source. Sever the connection, and the problem dissipates."

Their plan was multifaceted, leveraging both Y/N's legal acumen and The8's unconventional resources.

Phase 1: Discrediting the Journalist.

Y/N knew the press. She understood the vulnerabilities of reputation. "We need to plant seeds of doubt about Sarah Chen's journalistic integrity," she began. "Anonymous tips to rival news outlets. Fabricated evidence suggesting she's compromised, perhaps taking bribes, or has a history of sensationalism and inaccuracy."

The8 smiled. "My network can facilitate that. A few carefully placed whispers, some doctored documents. It's surprising how quickly the media turns on its own when given the right narrative." He envisioned a subtle campaign, leaks about unethical source payments, a fabricated story of a conflict of interest that would erode her credibility without directly implicating them.

Phase 2: Neutralizing the Blackmailer.

"The blackmailer is the real threat," Y/N continued, her voice hardening. "They have the original leverage. We cannot allow that information to exist."

The8 steepled his fingers. "They will be offered a choice. A substantial sum of money, enough to disappear and live comfortably, in exchange for all copies of the photograph and any related information. With a non-disclosure agreement, of course. A very, very stringent one."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "And if they refuse?"

The8's eyes glinted. "Then their life becomes… exceptionally inconvenient. Financial ruin, legal entanglements of their own, perhaps even a taste of what it feels like to be on the wrong side of powerful people. We'll make their existence a living hell, without ever laying a hand on them. My resources extend to orchestrating bankruptcies, fabricating digital trails, and creating legal nightmares."

They discussed the specifics. A dummy corporation to facilitate the payment, untraceable digital currency, and a series of shell companies to make The8's involvement invisible. Y/N would prepare a water-tight NDA, one that would legally cripple the blackmailer should they ever attempt to speak.

The Execution

The plan unfolded with chilling efficiency. Within days, whispers about Sarah Chen's questionable ethics began to circulate within journalistic circles. An anonymous email, laden with vague but damaging allegations, landed in the inbox of a prominent editor known for his rivalry with Chen. A few days later, a seemingly innocuous social media post, subtly implying financial impropriety on Chen's part, gained traction. Her reputation, once solid, began to fracture.

Simultaneously, The8's operatives made contact with the blackmailer. The initial offer was tempting, a sum that most people could only dream of. The blackmailer, arrogant and confident, initially scoffed, demanding more, convinced they held all the cards.

That's when The8's second phase began. Suddenly, the blackmailer's previously stable financial accounts became volatile. Investments plummeted, seemingly at random. A series of frivolous but financially draining lawsuits materialized out of nowhere, tying up their assets. Every online identity they had cultivated was compromised, their digital footprint meticulously erased or rewritten to present a portrait of an unreliable, untrustworthy individual. Their carefully constructed anonymity began to crumble, leaving them exposed and vulnerable.

The blackmailer, stripped of their power and facing imminent ruin, eventually capitulated. A face-to-face meeting was arranged in a neutral location, observed remotely by The8. Y/N, her face impassive, watched as the blackmailer, pale and defeated, handed over a hard drive containing the original photograph and every digital trace of it. The NDA, a legal steel trap, was signed without a word.

As the blackmailer walked away, their shoulders slumped in defeat, Y/N felt a strange sense of finality. The victory was cold, devoid of the burning passion that had driven her to avenge her child. It was the calculated triumph of survival.

An Unsettling Peace

Months turned into a year. Sarah Chen's career never fully recovered. She was relegated to niche reporting, her credibility forever tainted by the whispers. The blackmailer disappeared from the public eye, their life a silent testament to the ruthlessness of those they had sought to exploit.

Y/N and The8 continued their lives, their empires flourishing. The occasional art exhibition, the quiet dinners, the knowing glances. Their shared secret was a silent anchor, a dark bond that held them together in a world of superficial connections.

One evening, as Y/N stood on her penthouse balcony, looking out at the glittering cityscape, The8 joined her. The wind whipped her hair around her face, a cool caress.

"It's quiet now," she mused, her voice soft. "The echoes have faded."

The8 leaned against the railing, his silhouette sharp against the urban glow. "Are you content, Y/N?"

She paused, considering the question. Contentment seemed too gentle a word for the fierce, hard-won peace she felt. "I am… resolute," she replied, her gaze sweeping across the vast expanse of the city, a testament to power and ambition. "The world is a harsh place, The8. Sometimes, to survive, to protect what little you have left, you must become just as harsh."

He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch was familiar, unsettlingly intimate. "And you, Y/N, have become a formidable force. A beautiful one, even, with that fire in your eyes."

He pulled his hand back, and the moment passed, leaving a lingering warmth on her skin.

They stood in comfortable silence, two people forever marked by a transgression, forever bound by a secret that had reshaped them. The blood on her face, a memory whispered by The8, had not been a mark of shame, but a testament to her transformation. She had entered the darkness to avenge, and in doing so, had found a new, dangerous kind of freedom. The child was gone, but her memory lived on, not as a source of endless grief, but as the catalyst for the powerful, unyielding woman Y/N had become. The story of Cho Y/N, the chairwoman who looked pretty with blood on her face, was not over. It had merely entered a new, unsettling, and ultimately, unconquerable chapter. The world, unknowing, continued to spin, oblivious to the quiet giants who walked among them, forever changed by the secrets they kept and the justice they had carved out for themselves.

The end.

Deep Research

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